I stand there holding the box with my jaw on the floor. Did Pyotr buy these? When? How did he know her size? Why would he do something like this?
There’s no note, but it had to be him. No one else could get inside with the way he guards the entrance.
Anger rises in my chest, even if I can’t explain it. I don’t want his pity or charity. I’ve spent three years building a life for myself and my daughter without help from anyone, and I refuse to start accepting handouts now. Especially from a man who might be the one to end my life.
I march down the hallway and pound on his door.
“Come—”
I shove the door open before he finishes the invitation and find him dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed, and lacing his boots. He looks up at me with ice-gray eyes, calm despite the way I’m heaving.
“What is this?” I thrust the shoebox toward him.
“Shoes.”
“I can see they’re shoes. Why are they in my daughter’s room?”
He shrugs. “Her current shoes have holes.”
“That’s not your business.”
He stands, and suddenly, the room feels terribly small. He towers over me, and I suck in a deep breath to keep myself from shrinking away.
“She said yesterday that her feet were cold,” he says. “Children need shoes that keep their feet warm.”
Tears scorch my eyes, but I blink them back. “I was handling it. I don’t want your pity, Pyotr.”
“It’s not pity.” He knits his brows.
“Then what is it?”
He holds eye contact for a long moment, like he’s debating how to answer without pissing me off even more.
“Children need shoes,” he says finally. “That’s all.”
There’s no warmth in his voice, no attempt to make me feel better about accepting his charity. Just a flat statement, as if buying expensive shoes for my daughter was the most logical thing in the world.
I want to argue. I want to throw the box at his head and tell him to mind his own business. But then I remember the way Kira said “the snow gets in” like it was another inconvenience she’d learned to accept.
“I’ll pay you back,” I tell him through gritted teeth.
“I don’t expect you to do that.”
“I’ll pay you back, or I won’t take them.”
He lets out a long sigh and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Fine. Pay me back. No rush.”
We both know I probably never will, but the lie allows me to accept the gift without feeling like I’ve surrendered something essential about myself.
I turn and walk out without thanking him. I can’t. The words would stick in my throat like broken glass.
Kira is thrilled with her new shoes. She puts them on within seconds of waking up and spends five minutes walking around the apartment, marveling at how warm and dry her feet feel. She asks where they came from, and I tell her someone left them as a gift. She accepts this explanation with the easy faith of childhood and rushes off to show Pyotr.
I watch from the kitchen as she tugs on his hand and makes him inspect each shoe, pointing out the thick soles and the waterproof lining. He squats in front of her and examines them with the same seriousness he brought to her glitter dinosaur, nodding along as she chatters about how she’ll be able to jump in puddles now without getting wet.
“They’re very practical,” he tells her. “Good for puddle jumping.”
“Do you jump in puddles?” Kira asks.
