Then they got used to it.
The kids too.
Kaloyan was twenty when she once saw her leave the money on the table.
“Is this the woman Dad was taking from?” she asked after she left.
I don't know if he was taking anything.
- But she says it.
- Yes.
And you just believe her?
I didn't know what to answer.
Because I didn't fully trust her.
But I believed the fact that it was coming.
That he's never late.
That she never reminded me how much she helped me.
That he never used the money to make me do something for her.
Yet there was one silence between us.
A friendship that had become an obligation.
Sometimes we would go for coffee.
We were talking about Elitsa, about Kaloyan, about my work, about her old apartment in Reduta. But when I mentioned Dimitar, Maria was closing.
Over the years, I began to notice that she had never had a real close person by her side.
There were colleagues.
There were acquaintances.
There were cousins who came on a name day.
But there was no man waiting for her.
There were no children.
There was no one who could call her to just ask her how she was doing.
Just me.
And my children, who over time began to call her Aunt Maria.
Elitsa invited her to Christmas.
Kaloyan brought her flowers on March 8th.
Maria always brought gifts, but never expensive. A book about Elitsa. Gloves for Kaloyan. Pot with an orchid for me.
The only thing that didn't change was the white envelope.
When Kaloyan got married, Maria came to the wedding.
He stood at the end of the hall in a dark blue dress and watched my son dance with his bride. She didn't smile much, but I saw her eyes full of tears.
Then he took my hand.
Dimitar would have been proud of him.
"You would," I said.
- He's a good boy.
- Yes.
You raised him well.
I couldn't take it then.
Not just me, Maria. If Dimitar really owed you something, you returned it many times.
She looked at me as if I had said something painful.
"I didn't bring him back," he whispered. "I didn't even start."
My heart has shrunk.
- What does that mean?
- Nothing.
