I tell myself we’re both just busy, but the truth is that nothing between us is settled. The air in the apartment feels anxious and disturbed, like a conversation paused at the wrong moment. I keep replaying the things I said, what he said back, the way I still caved the second he touched me. The way my body surrendered to him so quickly, even though my brain was screaming that it was the wrong thing to do.
I keep thinking we’ll have a discussion, that we’ll address it, that maybe we’ll finally iron out this issue that keeps growing between us. So when Samuil finally speaks to me again, it’s not what I expect.
He appears in the doorway of the living room while I’m straightening the throw blankets on the couch, his posture stiff, as if he can’t decide how to approach me.
“I’ve been talking to Davýd,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “He was impressed with how you handled Anya.”
My heart gives a small, involuntary pull at her name. She’s such a special little girl, and working with her has been the most fun I’ve had since I was brought here.
Samuil shifts his weight, which is about the closest he gets to fidgeting.
“I know this is a lot to ask, but he was wondering if you’d be willing to spend a little more time with her on the days the nanny can’t manage everything.” He pauses, like he’s bracing for my rejection. “Only if you want to, of course.”
The answer comes out of me instantly. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I’d love to.”
The relief that crosses his face is subtle, but I don’t miss it. It softens something sharp in me, and I can finally see he’s struggling with this tension just as much as I am.
“Good,” he says softly. “Davýd said she responded to you. More than she has with anyone else.”
I try not to be too pleased by that, but I can’t help the joy I feel. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s why I became a teacher. I want to make a difference in the lives of kids who are struggling, and I’ve somehow managed to do it even without being formally employed.
“When do you want me to start?” I ask.
“Today,” he says. “If you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it,” I tell him, already reaching for the notebook I left on the table. “Let me put something together.”
Something shifts in the air between us. Nothing is fully repaired or even remotely healed. Maybe, somehow, it’s a little less fractured, though. Maybe there’s a way forward for us after all.
In the afternoon, I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with Anya across from me. She’s tiny and serious and watching me with those solemn eyes that seem to take in everything and give nothing back.
“Do you want to start with coloring?” I ask gently.
She doesn’t respond out loud, but she reaches for the crayons, which I take as a yes.
I pull a fresh piece of paper from the stack. She watches my hands but not my face, which is normal for kids with trauma. Eye contact can be overwhelming. I don’t push it.
As she colors, I start singing quietly. Soft, simple songs. Repetitive ones. Songs with predictable rhythms and rhymes. Children’s brains like patterns, especially when those patterns were taken from them too early.
“This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb,” I start, singing the old nursery rhyme that’s meant to help little ones learn to count.
By the time I get all the way to ten, her coloring slows. She doesn’t look at me, but she’s listening.
I finish the song and start “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” but a little louder this time. She presses harder with the crayon, the line she’s drawing turning darker. I take that as a good sign.
When I stop singing, her hand pauses mid-stroke. She doesn’t start coloring again until I start another song. She’s listening. She likes it. So I keep going.
When I finish the last song, she doesn’t move for a full thirty seconds. Then she picks up a different crayon, settles into a calmer posture, and starts a brand-new picture.
It’s progress. Small, sure, but undeniable.
The next day, she comes back. When she sees me, she hesitates in the doorway for a moment. Her fingers curl around her father’s sleeve.
I stay where I am, letting her choose the pace.
“Hi, Anya,” I say softly. “I’m happy you’re here again.”
Something in her face flickers. She steps inside.
