In the director’s office, the mixed aroma of coffee and flowers hung in the air. A full-figured woman in a strict suit scrutinized their documents.
“So, you are the biological father?” she asked, looking up at Viktor through her glasses. “Why are you coming forward only now?”
“I…” he began, faltering. “I didn’t know about Nadya’s death. She hid that she was sick.”
“And if she had lived? Would you have continued to silently pay alimony?” Her voice was sharp.
“Elena Petrovna,” Larisa interjected gently, “we understand your concerns. However, what’s important now is that Kirill has a family ready to take him in.”
The director sighed heavily:
“You must know: he’s a good child. Smart, calm. But very withdrawn after his mother’s loss. He has nearly stopped communicating with others.”
“Can we see him right now?” Katya asked impatiently.
“He’s at his football practice in the yard.”
They stepped outside. On a small field, a few boys were playing football. Viktor immediately recognized his son—the boy was standing in the goal, composed and focused, as if the whole world around him had vanished. He was the spitting image of his father as a child.
“Kirill!” the director called. “Please come here.”
