“We are filing for bankruptcy and divorce,” my father continued. “With his debts and lack of liquid assets, it won’t be difficult. All his accounts will be frozen, and the creditors will be very persistent. Moreover, I have every right to evict him from the apartment.”
Silence hung in the study. I shifted my gaze from my father to the lawyer. The plan was harsh but fair. It would leave Vadim with nothing: in debt, without a home, and without the family he had taken for granted.
“You have to make the decision, Ksyusha,” my father said, looking me straight in the eye. “I won’t do anything without your consent. But think about this: right now, he thinks you are weak and broken. Sooner or later, he’ll come crawling back, asking for money or bringing his floozy to live with your children. Do you want him to take the last of what your daughters have? Or will you protect them?”
I closed my eyes. I remembered Vadim’s face, contorted with rage, and heard his voice: “I’m with a woman, not an incubator.” I imagined my girls in the same apartment with that other woman. The choice was obvious.
“I agree,” I said firmly, opening my eyes. “Do it.”
The week at my father’s house felt like the eye of a hurricane—a storm was raging around us, orchestrated by my father, while I was safe in the quiet with my children. The days merged into one endless cycle: feeding, sleeping, changing. The girls occupied all my time and thoughts, and I was only glad for it.
Vadim showed up on the second day after I was discharged. First, there was a call. I stared at his name on the screen until the melody stopped. Then another, and another. On my father’s advice, I didn’t answer.
An hour later, the first message arrived: “Who did you even give birth to? I need to know. Not a word of apology, not a question about my health—just dry curiosity…”
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