— Mom, open the door. It’s me. And I’m not alone.
Kiril’s voice on the other side of the door sounded unusually firm, almost official. I put my book aside and walked to the hallway, fixing my hair as I went.
An uneasy knot had already formed somewhere in my gut.
My son was standing on the doorstep, and behind him—a tall man in a tailored overcoat. The stranger held an expensive leather briefcase and looked at me with a calm, appraising gaze.
The kind of look you give an object you’re deciding whether to buy… or throw away.
— May we come in? — Kiril asked, making no attempt to smile.
He stepped inside as if he already owned the place. The stranger followed.
— This is Igor Viktorovich, — my son said, taking off his jacket. — He’s a doctor. We just want to talk. I’m worried about you.
The word “worried” sounded like a sentence. I glanced at this “Igor Viktorovich.”
Gray at the temples, thin compressed lips, tired eyes behind stylish glasses. And something achingly, chillingly familiar in the way he tilted his head slightly, studying me.
My heart flipped and dropped.
Igor.
Forty years had blurred his features, aged him with the patina of another life. But it was him.
The man I had once loved to the point of madness, and thrown out of my life with the same fury. Kiril’s father—who never knew he had a son.
— Good afternoon, Anna Valeryevna, — he said in the smooth, trained tone of a psychiatrist. Not a flicker in his eyes. He didn’t recognize me. Or pretended not to.
I nodded silently, my legs going numb. The world had shrunk to a single point—his calm, professional face.
My son had brought this man into my home to have me committed and take my apartment—and this man was his own father.
— Let’s go to the living room, — my voice sounded surprisingly steady. Even to me.
Kiril launched straight into his case, while the “doctor” scanned the room.
My son spoke of my “irrational attachment to things,” my “refusal to accept reality,” of how hard it was for me to live alone in such a big apartment.
— Katya and I just want to help, — he droned. — We’ll buy you a cozy studio near us. You’ll be looked after. You’ll have enough money left to live comfortably.
He talked as though I wasn’t there. As though I were an old wardrobe that needed hauling off to the dacha.
Igor listened, occasionally nodding, then turned to me.
— Anna Valeryevna, do you often speak to your late husband? — The question hit like a punch to the gut.
Kiril dropped his gaze. So he had told him. My habit of sometimes addressing my husband’s photo out loud had become, in his hands, a “symptom.”
I looked from my son’s uneasy face to his father’s impassive one. Cold fury replaced shock.
They were both watching me, waiting for an answer—one with greedy anticipation, the other with clinical curiosity.
Fine. They wanted games? They’d get games.
— Yes, — I said, locking eyes with Igor. — Sometimes he even answers. Especially when we talk about betrayal.
Not a twitch. Just a brief note scribbled in his pad.
I could almost see the line in his neat handwriting: “Patient reacts aggressively to questions, confirming defensive response. Projection of guilt.”
— Mom, why are you saying things like that? — Kiril fidgeted. — Igor Viktorovich is trying to help, and you’re being sarcastic.
— Help with what, son? Help free up living space for you?
I wanted to shake him, scream, “Wake up! Look who you’ve brought!” But revealing that now would mean losing.
— That’s not it, — he flushed, shame reddening his cheeks. — We’re just worried. You’re alone. Stuck here with your… memories.
Igor lifted a hand to quiet him.
— Kiril, let me. Anna Valeryevna, what exactly do you consider betrayal? It’s an important feeling. Let’s talk about it.
Still that studying gaze. I decided to push him.
— Betrayal can take many forms, doctor. Sometimes a man just goes out for bread and never comes back. Leaves you. And sometimes… he comes back decades later to take away your last possession.
I watched his face. Nothing. Only professional interest.
— An interesting metaphor, — he said. — So you see your son’s concern as an attempt to take something from you? Has this feeling been with you for a long time?
He was methodically cornering me into his diagnosis. Every word I said would be used against me.
— Kiril, — I turned to my son, ignoring the psychiatrist. — Walk the doctor out. We need to talk alone.
— No, — he cut me off. — We’ll discuss everything together. I don’t want you manipulating me again. Igor Viktorovich is here as an independent expert.
Independent expert. My ex-husband who never paid child support because he never knew about his child.
— Fine, — I said, unexpectedly agreeable. Ice was forming inside me, sharp and unbreakable. — Tell me your proposal.
Relieved, Kiril eagerly painted a picture of the small studio—concierge service, benches with “grandmas just like you.”
I listened to him and watched Igor. Then I understood.
He didn’t just fail to recognize me. He looked at me with the same faint disdain he’d always had—for my love of simple cotton prints, my paperbacks, my “provincial” sentimentality.
He’d run from that once. Now he was back to give it his final verdict: “unfit,” to be put away out of sight.
— I’ll think about it, — I said, rising. — Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to rest.
Kiril beamed. He thought he’d won.
They left. Igor’s parting glance was one of pure professional satisfaction.
I locked the door, watched them walk to his expensive car—father and son, in perfect harmony.
But they’d miscalculated. I wasn’t just some sentimental old woman. I was a woman who’d been betrayed once—and there wouldn’t be a second time.
The next morning, I found him online. Dr. Igor Viktorovich Sokolovsky. Owner of a private clinic. Media expert. Smiling confidently in photos.
I booked an appointment under my maiden name: Anna Krylova.
When I entered his plush office the following day, he didn’t expect me. Not like this.
— Anna… Krylova? How can I help you?
— Doctor, I want your professional opinion on a case. Imagine a boy whose father left his mother pregnant and never came back…
I told the whole story, watching his face change.
— Which wound do you think is deeper? — I asked at last. — The one the boy got when his father left? Or the one the father will get when he finds out the young man who hired him to declare his mother incompetent… is his own son? Your son. And I am your former wife. Aня. Remember me, Igor?
The confident doctor crumbled. Pale, shaking.
At that moment, Kiril walked in—beaming, until he saw us.
— Meet your father, — I said evenly.
The world fell out from under him.
I left them to deal with each other.
Six months later, I had sold the apartment and moved to a small house in the countryside. Igor helped me find it. He didn’t ask for forgiveness; he knew better. But he stayed close.
Kiril called often, apologizing, broken. His greed had cost him everything.
One evening, as Igor and I sat watching the sunset, Kiril called again.
— Mom… will you ever forgive me?
I looked at the man beside me, at my peaceful garden.
— Time will tell, son. Time heals everything. But remember this: you can’t build your happiness by destroying the life of the one who gave you yours.
