“You don’t belong here,” he announced loudly. “Grandma says so.”
Someone snorted. Someone else clapped.
Larisa, his mother, leaned back comfortably in her chair and chuckled, telling her friend that Ilya was simply “being honest” and that “kids today don’t have filters.”
Sergey glanced at me briefly and smiled, as if this were some harmless joke he’d seen a hundred times before.
The cold soda soaked through my skirt, clinging unpleasantly to my skin. The stickiness made me shift slightly in my seat, but I didn’t rush. I dabbed at my legs with napkins, slowly, carefully, refusing to show embarrassment or anger.
The laughter only grew louder, as if they were waiting to see how far they could push me.
I kept my expression calm. I said nothing. I didn’t raise my voice or storm out. After a few moments, I quietly excused myself, apologized for needing to leave, and walked out.
Once outside, I got into my car and drove home.
Continue reading…
