I watch with detachment as the children sit down at the tables. Our nanny, Olga Petrovna, busily hands out spoons.
Gordey’s daughter is sitting among the children.
I go up to the list on the wall: Gorina Anna Egorovna.
Gorin. The last name has absolutely nothing in common with Gordey Rykov. Neither does the patronymic.
So, is the girl’s father’s name Yegor? Or is this patronymic just a distraction?
A young mother, being unmarried, gave the patronymic of her father, brother, or a fictitious man in order to divert suspicion from her married and respectable lover?
A wave of analysis overwhelms me. If this is an illegitimate child, would his mother give her another man’s patronymic?
I remember the photo that really knocked me down.
And then the second thought: would he have hidden his illegitimate child?
Knowing his character, his desire for order, his conviction in his own rightness… Why not?
I would hide it. I would hide it until I decided how best to use this situation to my advantage.
“Honor?” I whisper under my breath, sitting down at the table.
As the years have shown, Gordey had major problems with her. He always chose convenience, hiding behind high-flown words.
At first, after he appeared, I panicked. What should I do? How should I behave?
And now… I’m so glad that the teachers work in shifts.
So what if I pick up Lyova early? I have to go to the hospital to see my mom anyway.
What should we talk to him about?
So much water has flowed under the bridge. In these three years, I’ve given birth, nearly died, raised a son alone, survived a divorce, a move, and my mother’s illness.
The ex simply lived his own parallel, “wonderful” life.
I turn my attention to the children. And, to my surprise, Anya doesn’t irritate me. She’s smart, kind, and outgoing. She quickly joins in the game and shares her pencils.
And yet, I can’t help but look for Gordey’s traits in her. They’re easily recognizable in Lyova. Sometimes I even feel uneasy under my son’s direct, overly paternal gaze. And here…
Maybe my brain is just misinterpreting wishful thinking.
The work shift is going wonderfully. I truly love children and get a powerful boost of positive energy, which washes away some of the stress from meeting Gordey.
Sometimes, of course, it can be difficult. The group isn’t quite used to my style yet, and the kids haven’t fully demonstrated their fighting abilities yet, but I love working with kids. It’s my thing.
During nap time, when a blissful silence reigns in the group, the replacement asks me for help.
“Varvara Sergeevna, could you cover for me tomorrow? I have to go to the clinic in the morning to see the dentist. They have appointments scheduled two weeks in advance.”
I don’t mind. It’s even good. I have to take Lev to kindergarten anyway.
– Yes, of course, no problem. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning.
After handing over my shift, I go to get my son. I warn the nanny not to put Lev to bed, even though he’s tired. We have to leave.
Then begins the familiar bustle of everyday life. Dinner for Lyova, a quick cleanup, a bath, a bedtime story. And before that, a visit to Mom at the hospital.
I leave Lyova with the elderly nurse for half an hour and rush to the ward.
Mom lies quietly, barely moving her eyes. I stroke her hand, tell her that Lyova is healthy, that I found a job. I don’t tell her about Gordey. She shouldn’t worry.
She will be discharged very soon and then things will become really difficult.
At nine I put my son to bed and sit on the sofa. I have no legs or arms.
The fatigue accumulated during the day weighs heavily on me. I don’t even want to move, I don’t want to think, I don’t want to do anything. Just sit in silence.
At that moment, a sharp, insistent ringing of the doorbell is heard.
They’ll wake up Leo!
My heart sank. I hurried to the door. My intuition screamed that I hadn’t avoided the encounter, but merely delayed the inevitable.
