I kept a diary.
I was recording Emilia’s mealtimes, the checkups, the vaccines, the conversations with the pediatrician, our walks in the park. Not because I had to prove my love to someone.
Because I wanted no one to ever be able to say that I acted without thought.
Todor came every week from Russia.
Sometimes he stayed for a few days.
He wasn’t a young father.
It hurt the cross. He was getting tired fast. Sometimes he would fall asleep in the chair while Emilia was lying on his chest.
But he looked at her as if the world was starting again.
One day I found him talking to her quietly.
“I’m too late, little one,” he said. “But I’m not leaving this time.”
I stood at the door and cried without a sound.
Because his words weren’t just about Emilia.
They were for me, too.
For the girl who had once chosen security over love.
For the woman who had spent forty-six years alone because she thought she was not entitled to a second chance.
Sylvia didn’t come to the beginning.
Michael also did not.
But one day, when Emilia was seven months old, the doorbell rang.
I opened.
Sylvia was standing there.
He was holding a small bag.
“Can I come in?”
I didn’t say “of course” right away.
Not because I wanted to punish her.
It’s because I was scared.
I was afraid he would come in, see the baby, and we would start arguing again.
But then I looked at her face.
She looked tired.
Not angry.
Just tired.
“Come in,” I said.
She left the bag on the table.
There was a small knitted blanket inside.
Pink, with white flowers at the end.
