I put away the crayons on the table. The door lock suddenly twisted. Maximilian arrived home from work. He couldn't change his shoes before rushing to the phone and rubbing his hands together anxiously.
“Did my lovely daughter call me?” Maximilian asked me.
Vilhelmina studied in a boarding elementary school. Every night after the evening activities at eight-thirty, the children could take back their cell phones to call home.
It has been two years. The habit has weathered the storm.
Maximilian and I looked forward to hearing the children's voices to relieve the fatigue of a long day's work. But the phone would never ring again.
“I called you before, Max.” I lowered my eyelids.
“Oh, really? I’m sorry, my wife. It's my fault that I'm too busy today. There was a traffic jam.” Maximilian Kostomarov chagrined. “Vilhelmina told you something, right? Come on, tell me about it!”
I looked at my husband with eyes full of expectation. I really wanted to tell him the truth. The truth was that our daughter, Vilhelmina Kostomarov was dead.