“She already is. As is our father,” Samad replied quickly.

He thanked the waiter and picked up his coffee.

“Shall we talk?”

Damir laced his fingers on the table.

After a short pause, he said:

“This is a strange way to meet, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. But I figured we should talk alone first, before staging a happy brotherly scene for the family.”

Samad took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and paused before continuing. “Let me get straight to the point. I’ll give you as much money as you want—just disappear quietly, the way you came.”

Damir’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”

Samad chuckled and looked away. “Seems fair to me.”

“You shouldn’t measure everything in money,” Damir replied, his expression darkening. His brows drew closer, and a spark of anger lit in his eyes. He was hurt. Hurt for his mother back in Bolgar. She had cared about Samad too—she would have held him to her heart. He was, after all, the boy she had given birth to thirty-two years ago. But this guy had no intention of becoming part of that family.

“Empty words,” Samad said.

“You should’ve been home last week, the night I arrived. Then you wouldn’t be feeding me these empty lines now.”

Samad pressed his lips into a thin line. They sat in silence, staring each other down—ready to go head-to-head.

“Think carefully,” Samad said quietly. “You won’t get another chance. This is my family. All of it is mine. And though you may be their son by blood—you’re still a stranger. You know nothing. You’ve lived nothing.”

Damir almost laughed at his bravado. “I know nothing? I’ve lived nothing?”

Samad made a dismissive hand gesture as if Damir didn’t understand the point.

Damir continued. “You think it’s harder to live on daddy’s money than to fight for a piece of bread? To get beaten by thugs who steal your last penny—and then become like them just to survive? To risk your freedom—your life?”

He leaned back slightly, then added after a pause:

“I won’t go on. You might not be able to handle it.”

“Looks like you Russians love action movies,” Samad scoffed sarcastically.

Damir sighed deeply. “If only…”

“Damir, just know—you don’t have much time,” Samad warned, ignoring his words.

“Then what?”

Samad stayed silent.

At that moment, Saher returned, beaming. “Brothers! So, did you talk?”

Damir instantly switched from hostile to warm, answering first. “Yes, sweetheart. Samad kindly offered to share all the family joys and troubles with me.”

Samad’s jaw clenched, and he slapped the table lightly, then looked at his sister and gestured for her to sit.

“Everything okay, brother?” Saher asked hesitantly, looking at Samad.

“Of course. Don’t worry—everything’s great,” he replied and kissed her on the temple.

That evening, Damir carefully put the photos of his mother Zulfiya back into his suitcase. Samad clearly had no interest in them. Damir sat on the bed and dropped his head into his hands. So that meant she would suffer if she came here. By morning, his head ached from a sleepless night. He got up early and, trying not to wake anyone, quietly went down to the kitchen. He sat at the table and made himself some coffee. Looking at his wristwatch, he saw the first light of dawn creeping through the window. It was ten to six. His mind was tormented with thoughts of his mother. He called her every evening before bed, each time making up a story—telling her that her real son was away on a business trip and that he very much wanted to meet her. He promised that as soon as he returned, they would call her together. She waited, and feared, and hoped for a joyful reunion all at once. He knew that. He knew his mother’s heart—what her boundless love was capable of. And he had no idea what to do next. At the same time, Emine—his other mother—also loved Samad. She had raised him as her own. If she found out about what he had done, she would be deeply hurt. And Damir couldn’t allow that to happen. He didn’t know what to do, caught in a whirlpool of thoughts. Sighing, running his fingers through his hair, he kept thinking and thinking. His father had turned out exactly as he had imagined—strong, intelligent, reliable. Damir smiled at the thought. A good gift from God. Now he had two mothers and the father he had dreamed of as a child. But he was no longer young either, and it wouldn’t be wise to risk his emotional health. Damir had once witnessed something that stuck with him forever—he was about eleven when a middle-aged neighbor, Uncle Rafik, suddenly collapsed and died on the spot from stress. That man had lost his son, who had died in the army, and the shock had taken his life. Damir and his mother had been in their house at the time and witnessed the sudden death. Since then, Damir had etched it into his memory: No risks with older people’s nerves—especially not mothers.