I leaf through the pages. It’s whimsical and sweet. Filled with illustrated cats doing many of the things Sofia does. Needing a rigid routine. Keeping to very set times for meals, playing, and sleep. Curling up in a small, tight space when they’re scared or anxious. Having oversensitive hearing and disliking noise. And so many other things too.And it’s perfect. My chest tightens. He went to all this trouble…
“Thank you, Viktor,” I whisper as I blink back my tears.
He also hands over another delivery box. I look inside to find a weighted blanket, plus a pair of ear defenders decorated with pink cat ears and cat faces. “I thought Sofia might like a weighted blanket sometimes,” he says. “It can feel a bit like a tight hug. And the ear defenders…I notice that sometimes she doesn’t like wearing hers, so I thought maybe she might find a cat pair a bit more appealing. I saw them online and thought I’d just get them on the off chance.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t mean the world to me that he’s trying to help us. Like this is just a run-of-the-mill sort of thing.
And maybe it is for him. But for me, it’s not.
That night, I hand the book to Sofia with a hopeful expression. She’s curled up in her bed, watchingThe Lion Kingbefore going to sleep.
“Hey, baby. I thought you might like this.”
She takes it, eyes scanning the cover.
I speak to her in a low voice. “It’s calledAll Cats Have Autism.It reminded me of you. In a good way. I think this might help you.”
She flips it open, glances at a page or two, then closes it gently, setting it on the nightstand beside her. “Maybe later.”
A pang hits me. Not because she isn’t excited. She’s allowed to process things at her own pace. But because I’d hoped and imagined her reading it and understanding everything.
But she’s quiet. Withdrawn. And suddenly I’m not sure this was the right thing to do. Maybe I should’ve just had a conversation with her. Sat her down and gone from there. I kiss the top of her head, keeping my voice even. “Okay, baby.”
She hums and leans into me for a second before returning to her movie.
I leave the room with a tightness in my chest I hadn’t expected. I settle in the rec room. A poker game is in full swing. Babulya rocks in the corner, watching the game unfold and offering commentary in Russian.
But I don’t linger long. Instead, I head back to the office to finish a little work.
As I type, my phone lights up with a new email. And my heart plummets like an out-of-control roller-coaster.
Because between job board alerts and spam messages about refinancing, there’s a name.
A name I haven’t heard in years.
A name I never wanted to hear ever again.
Gennady.
Bile burns my throat. I don’t want to open it. My finger hovers over the email. I push out a shaky breath. And then I click on it. It’s short and to the point:“I’ll be in the States next week. I’d like to see you. It’s been too long.”
That’s it. No date. No explanation. No apology for the past. Nothing.
My hands shake. I read and reread the email. Once. Twice. Three times.
He shouldn’t want to see me. He shouldn’t even know my email address. It’s an email I use for private things, and it was created after I left Russia. After I left that life behind forever.
My heart hammers. I can’t get enough air.
I stand too fast. The chair skids back, scraping loudly.
I want to run. But where?
I shake my head. It’s just one man. Just a name. A ghost from a past I thought I’d buried.
And yet—dread crawls up my spine. The cold certainty in my gut tells me something is about to go wrong. That the life I’ve built, the peace I’ve started to find with Viktor and the children, is about to totally unravel.
