He leaves us to go to the kitchen, and I take Nikolai into the bathroom, where I get him settled in his baby bathtub. He splashes around happily, only crying when I wipe his face. He hates having his face cleaned, no matter how dirty he is.
“You’re okay,” I coo, rubbing his head gently. “Mama’s here.”
He gives one more little sniffle and then smiles at me with his one little tooth.
“Mama will always be here,” I promise him. “And I will never let anything happen to you.”
“M-m-m,” he tries, probably the closest he’ll get to “mama” for a while.
EPILOGUE II
SAMUIL
Five Years Later
The first thing I see when we arrive is Molly’s face on a banner.
It hangs above the new community center entrance, her smile wide, bright, and genuine, next to the logo she designed herself for the nonprofit she built from the ground up. She fought for every dollar of funding, refusing to let me fund it outright. She wrote proposals during late nights. She navigated partnerships with schools, city officials, and donors despite never once having done anything like this before.
Now she stands in front of the building, the fruition of all her dreams. It’s a safe place for kids who never had one, an after-school resource center she’s dreamed about for years.
Our oldest, Nikolai, who insists on being called Niko now that he’s a “big boy,” stands in front of the entrance gripping the oversized ceremonial scissors like they’re a sword. His chest swells with pride every time someone smiles at him. Molly smooths his hair for the fifth time even though he messes it up on purpose whenever she fixes it.
I watch her from just a few steps away, my hands resting on the stroller where our daughters, two-month-old twins, sleep under the sunshade I triple-checked. The sun is out and hotter than expected. Their tiny breaths puff rhythmically, soft little sighs that make me want to protect them from anyone who even looks at them the wrong way.
I still have such a hard time believing I have three kids now with the wife I adore. I never could have imagined any of this. Even when I first found out she was pregnant, I didn’t expect our family to expand this much, or my heart to be this full.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Molly says brightly, crouching beside Niko. “Are you ready to cut the ribbon?”
Niko beams, showing off the gap where his front tooth used to be.
“I practiced, Mama. I’m gonna do it right.”
“I have complete confidence in you,” she murmurs, kissing his forehead.
Then she turns, like she feels me watching her, and our eyes meet. I give her a small nod. She smiles, soft and full of warmth, and I swallow hard.
A crowd forms around us, full of the press, donors, local officials, and families from the community. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s enough that I position the stroller slightly closer to my leg, purely out of instinct. Old habits die hard, but the difference is I don’t feel the same kind of fear anymore. Not like before. I stepped back from the darker parts of the Bratva years ago, and the man who manages the more dangerous operations now can have that burden.
My first priority is my family. To Molly, who’s worked for this moment as if the world depended on it, and to my three perfect children.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” she calls out when she steps up to the small podium, her voice carrying the confidence she’s earned.
The crowd quiets instantly. She’s captivating when she’s like this. She’s vibrant in a way few people ever get to see. Her passion is something kinetic. It fills the air, draws people in, and makes them want to believe in something good.
“I want to welcome you all to the opening of the Walnut Grove Resource Center,” she says. “This is more than a building. This is a promise to our kids. A place where they will be safe, supported, encouraged, fed, and surrounded by people who love them.”
Applause breaks out, loud and sincere. My throat tightens with pride. People are seeing in her what I’ve seen all along, and she’s done all the work to make her own dreams come true. I supported her in every way I could, but she did this herself. She insisted.
She keeps speaking, talking about after-school tutoring programs, STEM enrichment, art therapy, music classes, mental health support, and weekend meals-to-go. She tells the crowd about parents who need childcare so they can work evening shifts. About kids who fall behind, not because they can’t learn, but because they were never given a fair chance.
I know how much this matters to her, and I know why it matters. I know the ghosts she carries and the things she survived growing up in foster care. She went without so many times, and often had no support from her foster parents. She’s dedicated her life to making sure that the kids in our community never have to experience that.
A small hand tugs at my sleeve. I look down to see Anya, now ten years old, standing beside me. She’s wearing a little blue dress with embroidered daisies and white sandals that she insisted on wearing even though it’s November.
“Uncle Samuil,” she whispers, tilting her head toward the crowd. “Are all of them here for Auntie Molly?”
“Yep,” I answer, resting a hand gently on her back. “Today is a good day.”
