"That's all we wanted," Oksana says. "For Elena to be remembered. For her dreams to continue. For Maksim to be happy again. You've given us all of that."
We sit together in the mansion's living room, afternoon light fading to evening. The conversation turns to Elena's grave, and I feel the familiar weight settle in my chest.
"Do you visit often?" Oksana asks quietly. "We haven't been back since the funeral. Sixteen years. It's so far, and we're not young anymore."
"Every year on the anniversary," I tell her. "September 15th. I fly to Moscow, spend the day there. I was just there three months ago."
Sonya's hand finds mine, squeezes gently. She didn't know this. I've never told her about my annual pilgrimage.
"You wanted to keep her here," Dmitri says, understanding in his voice. "In Philadelphia. We know. But we needed our daughter home."
"I understood then. I still do." The words come easier than I expected. "Elena's whole life was in Moscow. Her childhood, her training at Bolshoi, all her memories. She only lived in Philadelphia ten months before—" I stop, breathe. "She should be buried where she lived, not where she was killed."
"We were grateful you agreed," Oksana says, tears in her eyes. "Grateful you understood, despite your own grief. Many men would have refused."
"I failed to protect her," I say quietly. "I promised on our wedding day that I would keep her safe. And I failed. The least I could do was honor your wishes about where she should rest."
Sonya speaks for the first time in this exchange. "Would you—would it be appropriate if we visited? I'd like to pay my respects. To see where she's at peace."
Oksana and Dmitri exchange glances. Something passes between them—a decision made silently after thirty years of marriage.
"We'd like that," Dmitri says. "We'd like to be there with you. With both of you. It's time."
"Then we'll go to Moscow," I decide. "Tomorrow. My plane can have us there by evening. We'll visit Tuesday, spend time at the cemetery properly. Then return Wednesday."
"You'd do that?" Oksana asks. "Fly all of us to Russia just for—"
"For Elena. For closure. For peace." I meet her eyes. "Yes. We'll do that."
Sunday evening, we finalize arrangements. Flight departs 6:00 AM Monday morning. Sergei will accompany us for security. Natasha will remain in Philadelphia to manage foundation classes.
Sonya packs carefully that night, nervous about the trip. "What if it's wrong? Visiting her grave while pregnant with your child feels like—"
"It won't. Elena would want this. Would want you to know where she is, to understand the full story. And her parents want you there. That's what matters."
We fall asleep early, knowing the departure time will come quickly.
Monday, December 20th, 6:00 AM.
The private jet waits at Philadelphia International, fueled and ready. Mid-size jet, comfortable for five passengers—me, Sonya, Elena's parents, Sergei.
We board at 5:45 AM, take off precisely at 6:00 AM into the pre-dawn darkness.
Nine and a half hours of flight time. Seven-hour time difference. We'll arrive in Moscow at 10:30 PM local time.
Sonya sleeps for most of the flight, exhausted from the past week's chaos. Oksana and Dmitri talk quietly about Elena—stories from her childhood, her training, her dreams. Stories I've never heard, or heard so long ago I'd forgotten.
"She was stubborn," Dmitri says, smiling at the memory. "Determined. When she decided to audition for Bolshoi Academy at eight years old, we told her she was too young, should wait. She auditioned anyway. Got accepted."
"Sounds like someone else I know," I murmur, glancing at Sonya sleeping against the window.
Oksana follows my gaze. "You chose well this time. A woman who fights back. Elena would approve."
"Elena fought back too," I say. "In her own way. Just—Anton was too strong, too prepared, too—" The words catch.
"It wasn't your fault," Oksana says firmly. "We never blamed you. We blamed him. Only him."
The conversation helps. Sixteen years of guilt, slightly loosened by their forgiveness.
