“The documents are authentic. Genetically, the baby is the biological daughter of Mrs. Mileva.”
“And who is the father?”
At that exact moment, the courtroom door opened.
Everyone turned.
The door opened with such a loud sound that Emilia startled in my arms.
She let out a sleepy whimper and curled her tiny fingers into the fabric of my cardigan.
I held her closer to my chest.
Everyone in the courtroom turned toward the entrance.
Silvia froze.
Mikhail slowly stood up from his chair.
And the judge, who until then had been studying the pile of medical documents with the patient, expressionless face that judges develop after years in courtrooms, raised his head.
A man stood in the doorway.
He was tall, thin, and silver-haired. He wore a dark suit that was slightly loose around the shoulders. In one hand he held an old leather briefcase, and in the other, a cane.
He looked at least eighty.
But when our eyes met, I didn’t see his age.
I saw the boy I had known more than fifty years ago.
“Todor,” I whispered.
My breath caught in my throat.
He took several slow steps into the room.
“Good morning, Elena,” he said.
His voice had changed with the years.
Deeper.
Quieter.
But I would have recognized it anywhere.
Todor Stoyanov.
My first love.
The boy who used to wait for me after school in Veliko Tarnovo. The boy who brought me wild daisies because he knew I didn’t like roses. The boy I once imagined building a little house with near the Yantra River, with a dog in the yard and three children running barefoot through the summer.
The man I had lost.
And the father of my daughter.
Silvia sat back down.
Her face had gone completely white.
“Who is that?” she asked.
No one answered immediately.
Todor turned toward the judge.
“I apologize for being late, Your Honor. There was traffic on the road from Ruse, and my car broke down near Svishtov. But I will not allow Mrs. Mileva to be declared incapable of making her own decisions before the whole truth is heard.”
The judge studied him carefully.
“You are?”
He took out his identification card and several documents from his leather briefcase.
“My name is Todor Stoyanov. I am the biological father of the child.”
The courtroom became so quiet that I could hear the air conditioner humming beneath the windows.
Mikhail was the first to explode.
“That’s absurd!”
The judge looked sharply at him.
“Mr. Milev, this is your final warning.”
“He’s eighty years old! My mother is seventy-nine! How can he claim to be the father of a baby?”
Todor didn’t turn toward him.
He simply placed the documents on the table in front of the judge.
“There is no need to take my word for it. There are medical tests.”
My lawyer, Mr. Stefanov, produced another folder.
