Mila’s mouth curves faintly. “Sit down before you fall down.”
I sink onto the sofa because arguing would require more strength than I have. Mila pours tea and hands me a cup, then takes the chair across from me. For a few seconds, she lets me pretend this is casual.
Then her gaze drops to the tray.
“How long?”
My stomach drops. “How long, what?”
Mila looks at me steadily. “How long have you been pregnant?”
There it is. No soft lead-in. No dancing around it. Just the question I’ve been dreading, dropped cleanly into the middle of the room.
I open my mouth to deny it, to make a joke, to do anything except tell the truth. Instead my face crumples.
Mila sets her cup down at once. “Oh, sweetheart.”
That does me in.
The tears come so fast I can’t breathe around them. I put my tea on the table before I spill it, and then Mila is kneeling in front of me, pulling me against her while I fold into her like I’ve forgotten how to hold myself together. She doesn’t ask anything. She doesn’t offer platitudes. She just wraps her arms around me and lets me cry until the worst of it burns through.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“For what?”
“For ruining your blouse.”
“I have plenty of shirts, Polina.”
A broken laugh slips out of me, then turns into another sob. Mila rubs my back and waits. She waits through the tears, through the hitching breaths, through the mess of it, and by the time I finally pull away, my face feels swollen and my pride is somewhere on the floor.
“I’m pregnant,” I whisper.
“I gathered that.”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“Not even Lev.”
It isn’t a question. I shake my head.
Mila studies me, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler. “What did he do?”
I close my eyes and draw in a breath. “He knew things about my parents. About what happened to them. He found out long before I did, and he said nothing.”
“Oh, Polina.”
“I should hate him.” My laugh comes out ragged. “That would be easier.”
“But you don’t.”
“No.” The word breaks apart on the way out. “I love him anyway, and I hate myself for that.”
Mila’s hand moves over my hair, slow and steady.
“I keep thinking about what he hid,” I whisper. “Then I remember his face or his voice or some stupid thing he saidmonths ago, and… I love him, and I despise that I do. What does that say about me?”
“It says you’re hurt,” Mila replies softly. “It says you’re in love. Not the same thing as being weak.”
