Jörn stands in the doorway of the old familiar art decco bedroom that had once belonged to my biological father, in the penthouse that had once been his that is now partially a museum
In the dimness and shadows he watches me
“Andreas ….told me …you were here,” he says from the distance
His words echo
I sit at the old dressing table with the silver combs and porcelain brushes that once belonged to ….oh, I don’t know—I realize, I should ask Ilya
“What happened to Ilya?” he asks as though reading my mind, “he said—“
“Oh, we found the overnight bag—“ I suddenly look up at him, “she’s gone into labor—I didn’t know she was expecting ….”
“Oh—how could you?—you’ve been—“
“Yes, I’ve been….I’m not going back there Jörn.”
“You have to!”
“I have to?” I stand up and walk to the window, “nobody owns me. I don’t have to do anything, I belong to me and I decide what I do.”
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