I put the phone down. After two days, he seemed to be losing patience.
A new message: “Ksyusha, why are you silent? Where are you anyway? I am the father, after all!”
The father? He remembered that? I smirked bitterly.
Dad, who had come into my room, saw the message over my shoulder.
“Ignore it,” he said curtly. “Let him stew. The more convinced he is of his own righteousness and your guilt, the harder the blow will be.”
It was strange, but I no longer felt pain from his messages. Only a cold, detached contempt. As if all this was happening not to me, but to someone else, and I was just an observer.
On the sixth day, his patience snapped. The phone vibrated with a long, angry message:
“I get it. You’ve decided to play the silent game. Fine. Play the victim all you want, I’m tired of this circus. Our relationship has hit a dead end. I’m not going to live with a hysteric. On Saturday morning, I’m coming to the apartment to get my things and put an end to this. I hope we can handle this without a scene and sort things out like adults.”
Like “adults.” He was sure I was sitting at home, tear-stained and broken, waiting for my master to show up, announce the divorce, and graciously leave me with half the debts.
I showed the message to my father. He read it carefully, and a faint smirk touched the corners of his lips.
“Excellent. He’s walking right into the trap.”
“What should I reply?”
“Nothing extra. Just one word.”
My fingers typed out a short reply. A reply that was supposed to lull his vigilance, to confirm my submission in his eyes…
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