She set aside her work drawings and stood up. She looked at her mother-in-law, then her sister-in-law, and finally turned an icy gaze on her husband, who had already hunched his shoulders. “Are you seriously asking me to hide my child in her room so your infertile sister won’t be upset?”
Dasha said it with perfect clarity, each word landing in the room like a stone. Mike cracked. Guilt toward his mother and fear of conflict pushed him into the worst possible response: anger.
He raised his voice. “I’m sick of this. My sister’s only here for a week!” “Why can’t you just be understanding?”
“She’s suffering.” And then seven-year-old Nastya stepped in. The little girl calmly set down her marker, clicked the cap back on so it wouldn’t dry out, and stood up from the rug.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress, walked over to the couch, and looked straight at her father with clear, innocent eyes. “Daddy, why does Aunt Susan cry about not having kids?” Her child’s voice rang out clean and distinct in the silence that followed.
“Yesterday on the balcony she told her friend Lena, ‘I can’t stand those little brats.’” “She said, ‘I want to live for myself.’”
“She also said, ‘All I have to do is pretend I’m getting treatment.’” “Then Mike will feel sorry for me.” “He might even pay for the updates in my condo.”
A heavy silence settled over the room. Eleanor froze with half a hand pie in her hand. But Nastya wasn’t finished.
A smart child used to giving neat little school reports, she continued with perfect order. “And Aunt Susan also said, ‘I rented out my condo to tech guys for a year so the money keeps coming in.’” “And, ‘I’ll live with my brother.’”
“And, ‘We’ll push his wife into the back room.’” “I wrote it all down.” “I even have the date and time.”
Nastya patted her sketchbook. Eleanor choked on air at the child’s words. The hand pie slipped from her fingers onto the rug.
Slowly, she turned to her daughter. “Susan,” Eleanor said hoarsely, “is that true?” “You rented out your condo?”
