The flame doesn't catch. I'm not trying to light it. Just need the motion. The connection to him.
Did you know, Dad? About the affair? About the money? Did you sail out that morning knowing you might not come back?
No answers. There never are.
The door opens and Mila bursts in. She spots me, and her face breaks into that smile that never fails to make my chest warm.
"Izzy! Papa said you'd be home. I got you a cookie." She holds up a chocolate chip monstrosity that's mostly burnt around the edges.
"Did you make these yourself?" I take the offered cookie, biting into it. It's terrible—too much salt, underbaked center—and absolutely perfect.
"Andrei helped. But I did most of it." Pride radiates from her small frame. "How was your day?"
I look at this child. This small person who lost her mother to violence and found a new one in me. Who doesn't know about recordings or confessions or the fact that I just watched my mother beg and felt nothing except relief when she left.
"It was good, sweetheart." I ruffle her hair. "Really good. Where's your father?"
"He used the garage door to go to his office. He's been on the phone a lot." She takes out a book from her backpack. "Math is stupid. Why do we need fractions?"
"So you can divide cookies evenly." I press a kiss to her head. "Start your homework. I'll be right back."
Sergei's in his office, phone pressed to his ear, face carved from granite. He sees me in the doorway, and his expression softens in that way that's only for me and Mila. He ends the call quickly.
"I'm sorry I didn't immediately come say hi. How'd it go?" He's already moving toward me, reading the tension in my shoulders, the exhaustion in my eyes.
"She told me everything. The affair. The embezzlement. How Matthew convinced her Dad had to die." I let him pull me against his chest, breathing in cedar and safety. "She tried to offer a deal. Testimony against Matthew in exchange for immunity."
"You said no."
"I said no." I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "She doesn't get to escape consequences by selling out her lover. They chose each other for fifteen years. They can burn together."
"How do you feel?"
"Empty." The word surprises me with its honesty. "I thought I'd feel satisfied. Vindicated. Something. But I just feel... done. Done with her. Done with the lies. Done pretending there's anything left between us worth salvaging."
"That's grief." His hand slides into my hair, gentle. "Not for her—for the mother you wished you had. The one who would've chosen you."
My eyes burn. I blink it back. "She said she loved Dad once. Before Matthew. Before the distance. Said he loved his ideals more than he loved her."
"Do you believe her?"
"I believe she believes it." I lean into his touch. "But I also believe she's spent fifteen years justifying her choices. Rewriting history so she's the victim instead of the villain. And I'm done listening to her version of events."
"Good." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "She doesn't deserve any more of your time."
We go back to the kitchen, and Mila's showing off her fractions with pride. Sergei helps her with the homework while I start dinner—something simple because my hands are still shaking from confronting Mother. Pasta with butter and garlic. Comfort food.
While the water boils, I flip Dad's lighter open one more time. The flame catches, reflected in the window above the sink. Outside, darkness falls over Brooklyn. Inside, warmth and laughter and the family I chose.
For you, Dad, I think, watching the flame dance. Almost there. Almost done.
The lighter clicks closed.
I pull out my phone, texting Wesley: Mother came by. Tried to flip on Matthew in exchange for immunity. I shut it down, but she admitted everything—the affair, the embezzlement, that Matthew convinced her Dad had to die. All verbal, nothing recorded this time, but she's scared. Desperate.
His response comes quickly: Good. Desperate people make mistakes. I'll have eyes on her. If she runs to Matthew, we'll know.
She will, I type back. She always runs to him. That's the problem.
