"I'm sorry, Piotr. I wanted to--I wanted to keep you," she manages. "To not--with your great-grandfather, I never wanted to see you and see him. I wanted to spare you that. And I just," and now she's crying, "wanted our baby. I wanted our baby when I was fourteen and I was stupid and a kid but I still want him now. And maybe if I hadn't--if we'd gotten together sooner we could have him. I don't know. I don't know. I'm so sorry. I want our baby and I'm sorry and I don't know what to do and I can't grieve what we never had but I want to."
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It's not her fault. It's not. She didn't know.
But she wishes she'd never opened his sketchbook.
"I'm sorry, Piotr. I wanted to--I wanted to keep you," she manages. "To not--with your great-grandfather, I never wanted to see you and see him. I wanted to spare you that. And I just," and now she's crying, "wanted our baby. I wanted our baby when I was fourteen and I was stupid and a kid but I still want him now. And maybe if I hadn't--if we'd gotten together sooner we could have him. I don't know. I don't know. I'm so sorry. I want our baby and I'm sorry and I don't know what to do and I can't grieve what we never had but I want to."