Before I could even ask what was wrong, my father slid his phone across the table toward me and said, “Explain this right now.”
On the screen was a message Natalia had sent to a friend that had been captured and forwarded to my mother, and it read that she was pregnant and that I was the father.
I froze in place because my own name stared back at me like a permanent accusation that I could not erase no matter how loudly I denied it.
I laughed at first because it seemed impossible, but my parents did not laugh and instead demanded answers, explanations, and a confession that I could not give.
My voice cracked as panic spread through me and I kept repeating that I had nothing to do with it, but they had already decided what they believed.
My mother whispered with a trembling voice, “How could you do this to her,” while my father shouted, “You are finished in this house,” as if a verdict had already been signed.
