The investigation progressed rapidly.
They had a video.
There were indications.
There was a coup.
There were documents.
There was intent involved.
That was enough.
But for me, the most important thing did not happen during the interrogation.
And not in the police corridor.
The most important event took place on the afternoon of the third day.
Artyom picked up his mother’s things from our apartment.
Silently.
Without heroism.
Without boasting that he had finally understood everything.
I just took the boxes to the hallway.
On top lay her favorite tablecloth, which she had once bought herself with the remark that there had to be a “normal housewife” in the house.
He returned to the room late.
He sat down next to me.
I looked after the children for a while.
Then he said:
I don’t know if you will be able to forgive me. But I won’t let anyone else decide for us.
Previously, these words would have been sufficient for me.
But after giving birth in the hospital, you will hear everything differently.
When they tried to take your son away from you, you began to understand very clearly what the price of broken promises is.
I didn’t respond immediately.
Sometimes silence is not a sign of weakness.
Sometimes it is the only honest thing left.
We were fired after five days.
There were no flowers in the painting.
There were no happy family photos.
I had asked to take only the children and the bag.
No guests allowed.
No balls.
Without pretending that everything is fine.
The exit of the department smelled of bleach and wet coats.
The gray snow melted in the parking lot.
Artyom wore the car seat together with Leo.
I held the moon.
She walked slowly.
The seam stretched with every step.
