Three days later, Sofia was finally ready to go home. She chattered nonstop the entire ride back.
"Mommy, is Alex coming today?" she asked for the fifth time.
"Sweetheart, Alex is at work," I said patiently, "but he'll come see you tonight."
"Really?" Her eyes lit up.
"Really. Now you need to rest."
That finally quieted her down. She settled back in her seat, satisfied.
Those three days at the hospital, I witnessed everything. Alexander showed up almost daily, always carrying some carefully chosen little gift. Day one was a colorful children's storybook, day two a soft teddy bear, day three he brought sunflowers—Sofia's favorite flowers.
But what really moved me wasn't the gifts. It was the way he looked at Sofia.
I'd seen that look before—every morning when I looked in the mirror. That's how a mother looks at her child. Pure, unconditional love and protectiveness. Now I understood it was also how a father looked at his child.
What touched me even more was how he'd help me out without being asked. When I had to rush back to the paper for urgent work, he'd stay with Sofia. When doctors came for checkups, he'd ask all the right questions, like a father who truly cared.
Yesterday, when I returned from the office, what I saw nearly brought me to tears. Alexander sat beside the hospital bed, patiently teaching Sofia to draw with colored pencils. Sofia had drawn a flower—crooked and messy—but she showed it to him with pure excitement.
"This one's for Mommy!" she said proudly.
"What about this one?" Alexander pointed to another flower.
"This one's for you, Alex! Because you're so nice to me!"
I saw something flash in Alexander's eyes—the joy of being needed, being loved.
In that moment, my heart softened.
No. My heart broke.
Because I suddenly realized what I'd been watching these three days wasn't just some kind neighbor caring for a sick child. I was watching a father love his daughter, and a daughter craving her father's love.
And I'd been standing in the way of that natural bond all along.
Now, sitting in the car watching Sofia's expectant face, I knew I couldn't keep hiding the truth.
After getting Sofia settled for a much-needed nap, I sat in the kitchen all morning, thinking. My mind was racing, thoughts crashing into each other.
Around noon, I finally made my decision and called Yekaterina. I paced the living room, burying my face in my hands.
"Katya, I'm losing it," I said the moment she picked up. "I don't know what to do."
"What's wrong? You sound frantic."
"It's about Alexander," I stopped pacing, leaning against the wall. "I want to... I want to tell him the truth."
Silence on the other end, then Yekaterina's soft laughter.
"Seriously?" I snapped. "Katya, I'm falling apart here and you're laughing?"
"Sorry, sorry," she said quickly. "I'm not laughing at you. It's just... this day was bound to come."
"What do you mean?" I started pacing again, from one end of the room to the other.
"Anna, remember what you told me months ago? You said you wished Sofia had a father, someone to help share the burden."
