(DASHA)
Sakharov Estate, Tyva
"What's wrong with Zia Dasha?"
I could hear Raffaele's voice from the other end of the pool as he asked his mother—again—what was wrong with me.
If only I could explain it.
"She's just a little sad, baby," Ivie said to the four-year-old boy. "But she's been sad for days," he complained.
"Sometimes that happens."
"Why is she sad?"
I could feel tears threatening again as I stared out over the rolling hills of the estate. I should leave. I thought coming out to the pool and getting some fresh air would be a nice change from staying in my room, moping. I was wrong. Out here, I was ruining everyone's fun.
"That's none of our business," Ivie said. "And it's not polite to talk about other people."
A small finger tapped my shoulder. I looked over and found Noemi, my two-year-old niece.
"Here, Zia." She held out a small yellow flower. "Feel better."
God, these kids.
