“You won’t,” I assure. “I’ll make sure Gustav gives you the freedom to choose.”
She nods, though something flickers in her eyes that I know she won’t share with me.
After everything I’ve been through, I just have to ask: “Is that why you’ve been so kind to me? Are you simply out of options?”
To my shock, Tyra intervenes.
“Peighton,” she says gently, her mocha fingers clutching my forearm with affection. “I know I told you not to trust Keira, but she helped keep you alive. She cared for you while Gustav nearly lost his mind with worry. She was grieving her husband and still prioritized you.”
That disarms me. I didn’t expect this alliance between them, nor the sincere affection in Tyra’s voice. They both sit here. One Americanized, one fiercely Russian, and somehow they both feel more like family today than my own blood.
Keira clears her throat, smoothing her napkin. “Yes. I have always tried to show you what it means to be a Russian woman. We are born into a culture where silence is strategy, not weakness. In public, we support our husbands because it strengthens the family. Behind closed doors, we guide them. Advise them. We debate. We agree. We are their stability.”
Tyra snorts. “I still want a New York man who’ll get on his knees for me once in a while.”
I laugh and blush as I say, “Gustav got on his knees for me in the library and loved it.”
She chokes on her tea. Keira’s lips purse tight like she’s fighting a smile. And for a moment, it feels like a real sisterhood. Messy, unlikely, but real.
And yet, in the back of my mind, the cultural divide hovers. American wives expect partnership. Russian wives expect protection. I’m caught in between, straddling both worlds. And I don’t know which one I belong to anymore.
A vibration on the table interrupts my thoughts.
My phone. Dad.
Tyra glances at it.
“Your father never visited,” she murmurs. “We tried to get him here. He refused.”
Her tone isn’t unkind, but the truth slices me open.
I answer the call, heart cold.
He says he was under pressure back home. He says he knew I was safe. He says a dozen excuses, all thinner than the snow outside.
“Dad,” I say quietly, “it was months. You didn’t visit for months.”
Silence. Then he mutters something defensive about believing Gustav would handle it, something about trusting the system. Work being busy. Excuses dressed as reassurance.
And suddenly, the difference between American fatherhood and Russian husbandhood hits me harder than anything Keira said.
My father left me to fend for myself across an ocean. Gustav didn’t leave my bedside for months.
“Peighton,” my father says, “Lil one, let’s not do this today.”
I swallow hard. “You’re right. Let’s not.”
I hang up first.
Keira and Tyra exchange a look, but neither intrudes. They understand Russian-style restraint and American-style confrontation equally well now. The contrast isn’t lost on me. Myown culture feels foreign. This culture is rough, sharp-edged, but steady.
A strange prickle grazes the back of my neck. Something unsettled and unfinished. I glance at my phone. Nothing but the call log. But the unease remains, creeping under my skin.
Chapter 47
Peighton
The days march on as I recover.
