They knew my marriage to their father was good.
And it was.
Georgi loved me in his own way.
He was thoughtful. Hardworking. Patient. He never raised his voice. He never made me feel alone.
When Silvia was born, he cried more than I did.
When Mikhail was born, he stood outside the maternity ward with a bouquet of carnations and told everyone that his son would become an engineer.
We built a life.
Not a fairy tale.
But a life.
And when Georgi died of a heart attack at fifty-nine, I thought part of me had died with him.
I was thirty-three.
I had two small children.
Silvia was seven.
Mikhail was four.
From that day forward, I never thought about another love.
Not because I didn’t have opportunities.
But because I had no strength left.
I worked.
I raised you.
I educated you.
I paid the bills.
I fought to give you an education, a home, and security.
The years passed.
You grew up.
You got married.
You had children of your own.
I remained alone in the big house.
Sometimes it was quiet.
Very quiet.
