“Is that Borscht?” she asks, peering at the food on the counter.
“Yes.” I’m impressed she knows what it is. However, what she says next has me wishing I’d chosen another meal.
“Your mother used to make that for me. She said it was your favorite.”
I grip the knife handle tight, breathing steadily to calm myself down. “My mother is full of s**t,” I snap, slicing through the beetroot in anger. “I wouldn’t believe a word she told you.”
Renata is quiet, pensive even. “She said you fell in love. Is that true?”
For this to work, we have to gain one another’s trust. This is the last topic I want to broach, but I suppose it’s a starting point. “Yes. I did.”
“Hmm,” she says as if finding it hard to believe. “Your mother said she was your weakness. That you sacrificed everyone for her.”
I don’
