"I know, sweetheart." I lean my head back against the seat, watching Brooklyn slide past, bleeding palms pressed to leather. "You're very smart. It's obnoxious."
"I get that from you."
"You get that from your father."
"Papa says confidence isn't obnoxious, it's accurate."
"Papa's biased."
"Papa's right here," Sergei says. "And Papa wants a raise for dealing with both of you."
"You don't get a raise for parenting, Daddy. That's not how families work."
"It should be."
"It's not. Mom explained it. It's called 'unconditional labor.'"
"'Unconditional love,'" I correct.
"Same thing." She pulls out a book, conversation over, and I watch her disappear into whatever mystery she's devouring this week.
My hands have stopped bleeding.
My chest still feels like someone scooped out everything soft and left gravel behind.
But I'm sitting in a car with my husband and my daughter, driving toward ice cream on a spring afternoon, and my mother is in chains somewhere behind us.
This is what winning feels like.
I thought it would feel like more.
The ice creamshop is a hole-in-the-wall we found by accident six months ago—Mila needed a bathroom, this place was open, and now we're regulars. The owner knows our orders. The booths are cracked vinyl that sticks to your thighs. The health code rating is probably generous.
It's perfect.
Mila orders something with seven toppings and no structural integrity. Sergei pretends to judge her choices. I sit in a corner booth with my bandaged hands wrapped around a cup of mint chip and try to remember how to exist in a body that feels three sizes too big.
"You're doing the thing," Mila says, sliding in beside me.
"What thing?"
"The staring thing. Papa does it, too." She takes a bite of her ice cream monstrosity, sprinkles spilling everywhere. "He stares at walls when his brain is too loud. You stare at nothing. Same thing, different direction."
"When did you get so observant?"
"Always was." Another bite. Chocolate sauce drips down her chin. "People don't notice because I'm small. But small people see everything."
Sergei settles across from us, coffee in hand because he's a sociopath who doesn't eat ice cream. "She's not wrong. I've learned more from watching Mila watch people than from most surveillance operations."
"Gross, Daddy. Don't make me sound like a spy."
"You'd be an excellent spy."
"I'd be a terrible spy. I can't keep secrets."
"Since when?"
"Since I told Mom about the surprise party you're planning for her birthday."
