Artyom, are you completely crazy? You’re 22, what wedding? Vladimir Timofeevich paced around the room, clutching his head and groaning from time to time.
His son, Artyom, was standing to one side, against the wall. The young man had just told his father his plans and stood his ground, unwilling to give in to his persuasions. Leave her, forget her, she’s from the village, we’ll find you a normal girlfriend, a girl from your class.
And anyway, why get married now? Wait at least until you’re 30; you have your whole life ahead of you, you just graduated from university, you need to think about your career. Dad, but Angela is pregnant, his son argued with him. Vladimir Timofeevich stopped and stared at his son.
He was just a boy, thin as a teenager, with blond hair and a mustache that was just beginning to grow. And he dares to argue with his father? Well, give him money and let him do what he wants. Although there’s no need for money here, let him take care of his own problems.
And we have enough money and connections so he won’t cause us any trouble. But she’ll have triplets, Artem didn’t give up. Three children at once, how will she manage on her own, and in the village, on top of that? Vladimir Timofeevich’s loud exclamations almost shook the windows, and his voice echoed in the high ceilings of the room.
It’s none of our business, I don’t need grandchildren from a kolkhoz farm. Look at you, young, clever, handsome, you have your whole life ahead of you. You’ll have hundreds like her, and they’ll all be upon you…