Artyom, are you completely out of your mind? You’re 22, what wedding? Vladimir Timofeevich paced the room, clutching his head and wailing every now and then.
His son Artyom stood to the side by the wall. The young man had just told his father about his plans and stood firm, not intending to give in to his persuasion. Leave her, forget her, she’s from the village, we’ll find you a normal bride, a girl of 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 looked at his son intently.
He was still just a boy, thin as a teenager, with flaxen hair and a mustache that had just started to grow. And he dares to argue with his father? So what, give her money and let her do what she wants. Although money is unnecessary here, let her deal with her own problems.
And we have enough money and connections so that she will not cause us any inconvenience. But she will have triplets, Artem did not let up. Three children at once, how will she cope with them alone, and in the village at that? Vladimir Timofeevich’s loud exclamations almost shook the windows, and his voice echoed from the high ceilings of the room.
It’s none of our business, I don’t need grandchildren from a collective farmer. Look at yourself, young, smart, handsome, you have your whole life ahead of you. You will have hundreds more like her, and they will throw themselves at you…