My hands curl into fists at my sides. Everything in me is fighting to stay calm, to speak logically, to not let rage or desperation drive the conversation. She looks at me with this crushed, hollow expression that hits me harder than any bullet ever could.
“You said you always wanted a family,” she whispers. “You said you wanted to do better than the people you came from. You told me you wanted to be a father who showed up. A father who cared.”
“I do.”
“Then why is everything else more important than us?”
“Because without the Bratva, I am nothing,” I snap, my anger finally getting the best of me.
Her eyes fill with tears, but she just nods and stares at me blankly. “If you truly believe that, then I can’t stay,” she says, more to herself than to me.
The words hit me with a cold finality.
“Molly,” I plead, my voice breaking at the sound of her name.
She stands slowly, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I won’t raise my baby in this world.”
“Molly—”
“I will raise this child alone far away from here if I have to,” she interrupts. “I will not be part of this.”
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe. “Please don’t leave,” I say. It comes out raw and quiet.
In response, she picks up her tablet, holds it to her chest like a shield, and walks past me with her head bowed.
I don’t follow.
22
MOLLY
Ispend the next morning trying to pretend my heart isn’t shattered into a million pieces. I keep replaying our argument from last night. He didn’t even consider what I’d said. I gave him an ultimatum, and he didn’t choose us. He didn’t choose our family.
It’s pathetic, honestly. I walk through the living room with a folded blanket in my hands, like I can hold myself together if I just grip something tight enough. Samuil left early this morning, which isn’t a surprise after the way things ended last night. I didn’t even hear him leave, and he certainly didn’t say goodbye.
So this is my reality now. I told him I would raise this child alone, and I meant it. I don’t know what that means for my life right now. If I leave, it makes everything too final. Knowing him, leaving would be difficult. We may be done romantically, but I doubt it’s as easy as me just walking out the door.
So I do what I always do when life feels out of control. I keep myself busy. I plan lessons for Anya. I make food. I use Samuil’s gym and work out for over an hour.
Anya arrives with Davýd in the afternoon. She walks through the door holding her book bag to her chest, her eyes as cautious as ever. As soon as she spots me on the rug, she hurries over and sits so close her shoulder touches my arm. The ache inside me softens for a moment. Davýd just nods at me and says he’ll be back in a few hours. I wonder if he knows.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I say to Anya, smoothing her hair. “Do you want to finish your princess book today?”
She nods once and hands it to me. For a few hours, I don’t think about Samuil. I put our argument out of my mind and don’t drive myself crazy thinking about the implications for my future. I don’t think about the baby inside me, who deserves a safe, peaceful world, one I’m no longer sure I can give them.
I just focus on Anya. I notice the little way she hums when she concentrates. I pay attention to the joyful pride in her eyes when she does something she deems correct. I memorize the way she cues me that she wants to move on to another activity or that she needs a minute before a transition.
When Davýd comes to get her, she clings to my sleeve before she goes. It’s not a hug, exactly, but it’s as close as she’s capable of right now. I wave goodbye to them both and shut the door softly behind them. I lean against it and stare at the vacant apartment, feeling just as empty.
Later, after tidying up the crayons and putting her worksheets back in a folder, I wander into my room and see the unopened package sitting on my dresser. I ordered it the day Samuil and I opened up to each other. That day, I could actually see a future with him. I started planning the nursery and ordering things to fill it.
I open the box with shaky hands. Inside is a beautiful woven tapestry of baby animals curled into their mothers’ arms. It was a promise to myself and my child. As long as I’m around, he or she will always have a safe space. I’m still trying to fulfill that promise.
I run my fingertips over the smooth edges and swallow the tightness in my chest. I roll the tapestry back up and slip it back into the box before going to the kitchen to make dinner. I decide on something simple, just a sandwich and some fruit. I eat standing at the counter because it feels less depressing than sitting alone at the table.
When I finish, I make another sandwich and leave it on a plate in the refrigerator. I do it without thinking, out of habit. I have no idea when he’ll come home or if he even wants to share a meal anymore, but I still set the food aside for him.
