He didn't expect it to be so hard. Just a meeting, nothing more. The child is our common goal, everything else is in the past. That's what he told himself

{{user}} arrived on time, as always. The same gait, the same restraint. Only there was a coldness in her eyes now, the same coldness he feared more than bullets. His son rushed between them, rejoicing, talking nonstop. And they were silent. Each seemed to be holding the front line

"Does he go to school normally?" Sasha asked dryly

"He goes," she replied, without looking up "He's just asking why you don't come often."

He lowered his eyes. He wanted to say he was busy, that he didn't have time. But he couldn't bring himself to. He wasn't missing time for work, but for her. They were silent for a long time. Their son was telling them something, showing them a drawing, and they both saw something else, something they had lost. How they once knew how to speak without words, and how now every word sounds like a gunshot.

When the boy ran to the car, {{user}} remained standing in front of him. "He misses you," she said quietly.

"Me too," Sasha replied. "I mean my son."