“A drunk driver, ironically,” I say simply. “Some kid who didn’t know his own limits. Pavel was only twenty.”
Molly covers her mouth like she’s trying to keep the grief inside.
“So after that,” I continue, “it fell to me. A seventeen-year-old kid with no one to guide him and a drunk father who barely remembered his own name. And with Pavel gone, his drinking only got worse. He didn’t give me any guidance on how to do this job, and he left me with a lot of shit to clean up.”
Her eyes shine again, but she doesn’t look away. “You didn’t have a choice,” she whispers.
“No.” I shake my head. “But I made one anyway. I took it seriously. I still do. Because if I don’t stay ten steps ahead, if I don’t control every moving part around me, people die.”
Her breath trembles. She looks down and rubs her palms together slowly, like she’s absorbing all of it.
“And fatherhood…” My voice trails off because the truth is heavy in my throat. “I want to do it right. Better than the people who raised me. Better than the world I grew up in.”
Her gaze lifts. Soft. Searching.
“I know I can’t give you a simple life,” I say. “I know I can’t protect you from every danger. But I will give you everything I have. Everything I am.”
Silence fills the space between us. For once, it isn’t cold or tense. It gives us both the space to breathe after I’ve laid this all out on the table. She swallows, her lips parting like she’s choosing her next breath carefully.
“Neither of us knows what it means to be truly loved,” she finally says softly, like she didn’t mean to say it. “And maybe we don’t even know how to love.”
I reach out and take her hand carefully, showing her that she can pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t.
“And somehow I still find myself falling for you more every day.”
Her fingers curl around mine as her words land. I look up at her to see her watching me seriously, carefully, with a faint smile on her lips. I lift her hand to my lips, kiss her knuckles once, slow, deliberate.
“You have no idea,” I say softly, “what that means to me.”
She looks like she wants to cry again, but she doesn’t. She just leans closer, resting her forehead lightly against my chest. I wrap an arm around her shoulders.
We sit like that for a long time. Her breath steadies as my hand rubs a slow line along her back, the tension between us shifting into something fragile and warm. She’s the first to speak.
“I don’t know how this ends,” she whispers. “And I still have a lot of fears and concerns. But I’m not ready to give up.”
“Neither am I,” I admit.
20
MOLLY
Things shift so quickly between Samuil and me that it makes my head spin. Our one talk turns into so many other talks. Days go by, and my favorite part of each day, after making progress with Anya, is when he gets home.
We eat dinner together and talk about our days. He doesn’t tell me the grittiest stuff, but he does open up more. We start planning things for our baby, like daycares and private schools. He’s already spoken to a lawyer to make sure our child has a nice trust fund.
It’s overwhelming, if I’m being honest. I came from nothing and never had anyone looking out for me. I would never let my child go without, but knowing my baby will actually have more than I’ve ever dreamed of is beautiful. It takes care of a lot of my fears for the future.
One afternoon, I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Anya while she colors quietly beside me, her small shoulder brushing mine every few minutes. She’s gotten so unabashed about being in my space these days. She chooses me. And the more time I spend with her, the more I feel myself thawing in places I didn’t know were still frozen.
I tap a pastel crayon on the page of her coloring book, purposely singing the rhyme wrong.
“The wheels on the bus go upside down,” I sing, perfectly serious.
Her head snaps up, eyes wide in that soft, owlish way she has, a tiny crease appearing between her brows. I gasp dramatically.
“Wait, was that wrong?” I ask.
She nods her head once. Slow. Deliberate.
