“Another, um, slice of cake?” I say. Her gaze sweeps over the coffee table, landing on the cake I baked this morning. “It’s too dry,” she tuts.
Babulya doesn’t even try to hide her snort. She’s clearly unimpressed by Olga so far.
“Like sawdust,” Olga adds. “I hope this isn’t how you fed my son when he was alive.”
I bite my tongue so hard it almost bleeds, forcing a polite smile that feels more like a grimace.
Her gaze slides to Sofia, who’s on the floor, lining up her stuffed animals with laser precision.
“What on earth is the girl doing?” Olga hisses.
“Sofia likes order. It helps soothe her and makes her feel safe,” I explain yet again. “More tea,” I offer, trying to change the subject.
“No,” she grits out, sniffing in a martyred tone as if the tea also isn’t good enough for her.
Sofia’s little hands start flapping in quick, desperate motions, her favorite stuffed cat clutched to her chest. She’s overwhelmed and reached her limit—too many voices, too many smells, too mucheverything. The scent of Olga’s strong perfume and her booming voice are causing Sofia’s anxiety to rise. I’ve explained this so many times to Olga—how Sofia’s autism means that strong smells and loud voices can overwhelm her and cause her senses to overload. But each time I’ve talked about this with Olga, she’s been dismissive and accused Sofia of being an attention seeker and me of spoiling my daughter.
I stand to help Sofia and suggest we go to her safe space—the one Viktor built for her—but before I can do anything, Sofia whimpers and rushes off.
Olga’s beady gaze narrows, and her voice rings out, sharp and cold. “Your daughter isbizarreandstrangelike this because of the wayyouhave brought her up,” she says, her lip curling as if the very sight of Sofia just now, rocking back and forth on the rug, was a personal offense to her. “She needs discipline! You are useless as a mother!”
I should be used to this from her, but I freeze, the words hitting harder than I’m prepared for. They strike me like a slap to the face. But even worse, my heart shatters into tiny pieces for my little girl and the judgment she faces rather than receiving understanding and support from her grandmother. My throat burns, but no words come. I want to protect my baby. To stand between her and this judgment. But my voice fails me. Tears creep in, hot and suffocating.
She makes a sound that’s half scoff, half sigh. “In my day, children were taught tobehave…not whatever that was.”
“Olga!” Viktor’s voice slices through the room. The air shifts instantly, like a storm rolling in.
Olga startles. “Viktor, I only meant?—”
“No!” His tone leaves no room for argument. He steps forward, positioning himself in front of Olga. “You do not speak about Sofia or Avelina in that way.”
“But she?—”
“Ever!” he grits out.
The way he wants to protect us makes my chest tighten. Geliy never stood up for me in front of his mother. Nor did he ever stand up for his children in front of her. Yet, this man, a man who isn’t even related to us, is doing that very thing for me and for my little girl. Just like he did in that shoe store.
I finally find my voice, Viktor’s presence giving me strength. “Beingdifferentdoesn’t mean that Sofia’s not good enough,” I say quietly.
“She’s more than different,” Olga blusters. “She’s odd and peculiar and?—”
“Sofia isperfectas she is,” I say firmly. “In every single way.If you can’t see that, the problem is not with her. It’s withyou.I think you should leave now. I have other things to be doing with my time—like supporting and caring for my daughter.”
As I start to leave the room, I see Viktor’s gaze pin Olga with quiet fury as he takes Leon from her arms.
Babulya storms over to Olga, eyeballing her as she fishes her favorite wooden spoon out of her apron pocket.
Olga’s mouth opens, then snaps shut. She snatches up her things and dashes toward the door.
And me? I’m too stunned to speak. Too overwhelmed by the fierce love blazing in Viktor’s eyes as he defends us.
The sun is setting, and Viktor doesn’t tell me where we’re going. Hejust appears in the doorway with his jacket zipped to his throat. “Shoes,” he says, tipping his chin to the closet. “Warm ones.”
We cross the courtyard under the bruised purple sky. The new building sits on the far edge of the compound where the storage shed used to be. It’s the extra gym for the men, and something that holds little interest for me. My eyes widen. “Don’t tell me we’re spending date night at the gym.”
“Incorrect,” he says, his mouth shaping into something I’d dare to call a smile.
Once we’re inside, the lights come on in a soft sweep. Vaulted ceilings, clean white walls, and the faint sharp scent of refrigerant. I hear it before I understand it—the delicate hum of pipes and coolant…and possibility.
