My wife filed for divorce, and my seven-year-old daughter asked the judge, “May I show you something that Dad doesn’t know about, Your Honor?” The judge nodded. When the video started, the entire courtroom fell silent. This story is based on true events.
On the day of the trial, my wife Marina filed for divorce, accusing me of being a worthless husband and a worthless father. She demanded all our property, down to the last trivial item, and also wanted sole custody of our daughter, with me forbidden not just from raising her, but from even approaching the child. But right there in the district courtroom, a quiet child’s voice turned everything that seemed already decided upside down. It was Sofya, our seven-year-old daughter. She stood up, looked up at the judge, and asked in a thin but very confident voice if she could show something that I, her father, didn’t even suspect. The judge nodded, and Sofya came forward, holding her old, worn-out tablet, which I had once bought for her on sale. She held it up, pressed the screen, and when the video started playing, such a silence fell over the room that you could hear someone cough in the distance.
But before that moment of revelation, there was a long journey, because it all began long before that morning in court. That morning, which I would later remember as the boundary between my old life and the new one, everything seemed to be going as usual. I, Dmitry, was busy in the kitchen in the morning, wearing my home t-shirt and old sweatpants. It was still dark, with only a hint of gray in the east. Oatmeal was simmering quietly on the stove, and water was hissing in the kettle. Steam rose from the kettle, mixing with the smell of fried eggs and fresh bread, while from the small pantry came the steady hum of the washing machine finishing its second cycle. I moved quickly but almost silently. Over so many years, I had learned to walk around my house like a shadow, so as not to disturb Marina’s precious sleep, who lately had been coming home late and waking up with difficulty, like someone exhausted by everyone around her.
Around six in the morning, she came down the stairs from the second floor, impeccably put together as always, in a smart pantsuit, with her hair neatly styled and a leather bag in her hand, which seemed to hold not just her laptop but her entire new world. As soon as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, I immediately placed a cup of strong black coffee and a plate with a neatly arranged breakfast in front of her. I did it more out of habit than in the hope of hearing a “thank you.” Marina sat down, took the mug without even glancing in my direction, took a sip, grimaced, and dryly said that the coffee was somewhat bitter today. All the while, her gaze never left her phone screen, where messages and icons were scrolling. I quietly apologized, said I must have overdone it with the coffee spoon, and fell silent. She didn’t reply, just pushed the plate away slightly, ate a few lazy spoonfuls, and went back to her phone. I stood to the side, like a waiter who had been forgotten after his shift. I waited, hoping she might say something, ask for something, clarify something, but there was nothing. A thick, cold silence hung between us, seeming to absorb even the steam above her mug.
I couldn’t even really remember the last time we had breakfast like normal people, with jokes, with her usual laugh that I used to love so much. It must have been a couple of years since her business trips, meetings, and conferences started stretching late into the night, and Marina began to live in a different rhythm, a different world, where there was no place for me. She looked at me less and less, and at her phone screen more and more.
Marina, without looking up, asked if Sofya was awake. I replied that our daughter was already in the shower and would be down soon. And indeed, a few minutes later, light, quick footsteps were heard on the stairs. Sofya, our seven-year-old girl, burst into the kitchen, wearing the neat uniform of the private gymnasium Marina had gotten her into through some connections. Her shirt was buttoned, her bows were tied perfectly, and her eyes were shining. Her lively smile contrasted sharply with the heavy atmosphere in the kitchen. She wished us a good morning, kissed Marina on the cheek, then me. Marina put down her phone, forced a smile for her daughter—a completely different smile than the one she sometimes threw my way—and gently told Sofya to eat every last crumb and that she herself would take her to school today. The girl gasped with joy at the thought of going with her mom. I felt a tiny bit of relief: at least in front of the child, Marina was still trying to play the role of a caring mother. And these short family breakfasts were the only more-or-less shared time we had.
When Sofya finished her porridge, Marina immediately stood up, took her keys and bag, quickly kissed her daughter on the top of her head, and, as usual, walked past me as if I didn’t exist. No thank you, no simple “goodbye.” The front door slammed, and the sound of her car driving away from the house gradually faded, leaving a heavy emptiness behind. The house seemed to exhale and freeze.
I was left alone, listening to the silence, and then mechanically went about my chores. I spent the rest of the morning in my usual routine: clearing the table, washing the dishes, hanging up the laundry, starting another load, and walking through the rooms, straightening pillows, toys, and papers. I did everything with almost painful meticulousness. Deep down, I had a foolish hope that if everything in the house was perfect, if dinner was always delicious, the shirts were ironed, the child was well-cared for and happy, if I was gentle and patient, Marina would one day return to being the woman she used to be. She would laugh again and hug me for no reason. But that former Marina seemed to be gone for good, leaving behind a person who looked right through me as if through a dirty window.
By noon, I went to pick up Sofya from the gymnasium. This was my favorite part of the day. I always walked to the school gates a little early to stand aside and watch her run out, search for me with her eyes, and wave happily. This time was no different. She ran up, jumped beside me, chattering nonstop, telling me how she had painted an unusually beautiful tree in art class, how a friend had shared a cookie with her, and how the teacher had written a whole line of praise in her diary, having said that Sofya answered all the questions today. I praised my daughter, called her a clever girl, and gently tapped her on the nose. She laughed. We walked home, and she kept talking and talking, and I hung on every word, as if afraid that one day this opportunity would simply be taken from me….
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