“Those dreams?” I signed. “They feel heavy right now.”
I gently tapped my chest to emphasize emotion. “But memories aren’t permanent anchors. They fade.”
My fingers moved again.
“They turn into air. And we make them small enough to breathe around.”
His gaze searched mine.
Wary. Hopeful. Exhausted.
A child trying to reconcile abandonment with reunion.
“But you aren’t staying permanently, are you?” he signed.
The question landed like a blade.
It exposed the fear underneath everything.
He already assumed departure was inevitable.
He was protecting himself from disappointment.
My chest tightened.
He wasn’t asking randomly.
He had observed. He had listened.
He had probably overheard fragments of conversations between me and his father.
“I know my dad is not in good terms with you,” he continued.
His hands moved with precision — clear, direct. “Are you two divorced?”
The question hit harder than it should have.
He had connected legal status to emotional stability.
In his mind, divorce might mean final separation.
I kept my expression steady.
My mind flashed briefly to the divorce papers sitting inside my satchel downstairs.
Ready.
Signed by me.
Waiting for Ruslan’s signature.
“Your dad and I aren’t divorced,” I said aloud.
My voice sounded calm.
But internally I finished the thought.
Not yet.
