What makes me most sick is that I could fix this problem in an instant. One withdrawal from the account Bogdan set up in my name, and I could buy Kira ten pairs of shoes. Twenty. Enough to last her until she outgrows them all.
But he watches that money. Touch it once, and he gets what he wants: proof that I’m his partner.
So, I count the rubles in my wallet and figure out how many lessons it’ll take to buy her a decent pair. The answer is too many.
After breakfast, I walk Kira to school and watch her trudge through the slush with her broken footwear. She doesn’t complain. She never does. Sometimes, I wish she would, so I could feel justified in my frustration instead of drowning in guilt.
“Mama, why do some kids have boots with fur inside?” she asks as we pass a group of children in expensive winter gear.
“Different families have different things, malyshka.”
“Masha has fur boots. She says they’re warm like wearing a hug on her feet.”
“That sounds nice.”
“Maybe I could have fur boots someday?”
“Maybe someday.”
She squeezes my hand and doesn’t ask again. That quiet acceptance guts me more than any tantrum ever could.
The secondhand shop near our apartment has nothing in her size. Neither does the one three blocks away. I check each pair twice, hoping I missed something, but the smallest shoes available would swim on Kira’s feet.
By the time I return home to prepare for my afternoon lessons, my shoes are soaked through, and everything in me has gone gray.
Pyotr is sitting in the living room when I come through the door, reading something on his phone. He briefly looks up, takes in my defeated posture and dripping coat, and returns to his screen without comment.
I don’t know why his silence bothers me. It shouldn’t. He’s not here to help me; he’s here to watch me, gather evidence, and determine whether I live or die.
But a desperate part of me wanted him to ask how it went. To show some sign that he noticed my struggle, even if he can’t do anything about it.
I hang my coat by the door and watch water pool on the floor. Another mess. Another small failure.
My lessons go poorly. I can’t concentrate, and my students pay for it. When young Grisha hits the same wrong note for the fifth time, my patience snaps.
The sharpness in my voice makes him blink as if I’ve slapped him. Shame punches through me. He’s a child. None of this is his fault.
“I’m sorry.” I soften my voice. “That was unkind of me. Let’s try again, slower this time.”
He nods and positions his small fingers on the keys, and I hate myself for taking my frustration out on an eight-year-old boy who just wants to learn piano.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while Kira sleeps down the hall in her too-cold room with her too-broken shoes waiting by the door.
I think about calling Polina again, but what would I even say? She doesn’t need my problems on top of her own.
Besides, she still hasn’t returned my calls. Maybe she’s done with me. Maybe she’s realized that being connected to her disaster of a little sister is more trouble than it’s worth.
Morning comes too quickly.
I drag myself out of bed and make my way toward Kira’s room to wake her for school. The apartment is quiet, and Pyotr’s door is closed. Maybe he’s still sleeping. Maybe he’s lying awake like I was, thinking about whatever keeps men like him up at night.
I push open Kira’s door and freeze.
A shoebox sits inside her room, positioned neatly against the doorframe near her closet. I’ve seen the logo in the windows of stores I can’t afford to enter.
My hands tremble as I pick it up and lift the lid.
Inside are children’s shoes in Kira’s size, according to the tag. They’re sturdy and warm, with thick soles and waterproof lining. These are the kind of shoes that will keep her feet dry through the rest of winter and probably into next year.
