My mouth goes dry.
Sofia gets to her feet slowly. “We do?”
There is no fear in either of them. Just curiosity. That’s somehow worse. I look at my children and feel the truth pressing at the back of my teeth.
For years I told myself I would never reveal it. Not to my father. Not to Vika. Not to anyone in this house. I thought if I kept it hidden long enough, it would become something fixed and manageable, some sealed part of my life that no one could touch unless I let them.
Now my son is standing in front of me, waiting for an answer, and I can already feel that silence breaking whether I want it to or not.
I make myself breathe. “Yes, you have a father.” My own voice sounds distant.
Sofia frowns. “Then where is he?”
I rest my hands in my lap because if I reach for anything right now, they will see them shaking.
Nikolai asks the next one more quietly. “Does Grandpa know him?”
My heart stumbles. Children should not be this perceptive…
But mine always are.
I look at him and see too much of Roman all at once. Not the face. Not exactly. The stillness. The watchfulness. The way he waits through silence because he knows people reveal themselves if you let them keep talking.
“I’ll tell you,” I say.
“When?”
“Soon,” I say, “That’s all I can say for now.”
“I wish Mr. Roman was our father,” Sofia says nonchalantly.
I turn to face her. “Why would you say that?”
She looks unfazed and just shrugs. “Because he’s so cool. He’s like Superman, but old.”
“I see,” I laugh shakily. I thought my secrets were out, but fate still has a little mercy on me. “Well, your father didn’t know about you.”
Sofia’s eyes widen. “How can someone not know about their own children?”
The bluntness of it almost makes me laugh, which would be hysteria and not humor. “Because sometimes grown-ups make very bad decisions.”
Nikolai lowers his gaze for a second, thinking. “Do you know where he is now?”
That question goes straight through me.
Because now I do. Or close enough. Closer than I ever expected to be again.
I look away toward the window because if I keep looking at my son, I might tell him everything just to stop carrying it alone.
But I can’t. Not yet. Not here. Not while my father is still in this house and the walls still belong more to him than to me.
So I look back at them and say, very gently, “Yes.”
“You know and you didn’t tell us?”
“Sofia.”
“Well,” she says, arms still folded, “that seems rude.”