Of course.
“Stay there,” I tell Anya automatically, already pushing back from the table.
She watches me with mild curiosity as I cross the kitchen and unlock the back door just as it swings inward.
“Misha, ya znala, chto ty uzhe ne spit,” my mother says as she steps inside without waiting. I knew you wouldn’t still be sleeping.
She’s carrying two grocery bags like she’s about to restock my entire house, and she keeps talking in rapid Russian as she kicks the door shut behind her. “Ty ne otvechal vchera, i ya reshila,chto pridu sama.” You didn’t answer yesterday, so I decided to come myself.
“Dobroye utro, Mama,” I mutter. Good morning, Mom.
She moves straight into the kitchen like she owns it, which, honestly, she does in spirit. “Ya prinesla tebe normal’nuyu edu, potomu chto ty pitayesh’sya kak student.” I brought you real food because you eat like a college student.
Then she looks up.
And sees Anya at the table in one of my shirts. Plates set out. Coffee steaming. My mother freezes mid-step. Her eyes widen just slightly before her cheeks tint pink. Not scandalized. Just… caught. “Oy,” she says softly.
Anya rises from her chair immediately. Graceful. Polite. Like she’s been trained for moments exactly like this. “Dobroye utro,” Anya says gently. Good morning.
My mother blinks, then recovers fast, because that’s who she is. “Dobroye utro,” she replies automatically, still staring at her like she’s trying to place her.
“I’m so sorry,” my mother adds quickly, switching to English as she looks between us. “I didn’t realize you had company. I would have called first.”
Anya steps forward without hesitation and reaches for the bags in my mother’s hands.
“Pozhaluysta, allow me,” she says softly, her accent smooth. Please.
She takes one of the bags from her and carries it to the counter like she belongs here.
Then she turns back to my mother with that composed little smile that doesn’t quite hide the exhaustion in her green eyes.
“You must be Roman’s mother,” she says warmly. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
My mother straightens slightly, flustered but pleased. “Yes. Yes, I am.”
Anya gestures to the chair she just vacated. “Please,” she says. “Take my seat.”
And I stand there watching it happen.
My mother, who barrels into my house speaking Russian and criticizing my diet.
And Viktor Dragunov’s daughter, raised in power and expectation, offering her chair like she’s hosting a state dinner.
My mother switches to English in a rush. “Oh no, I couldn’t,” she says when Anya gestures toward the chair. “Please, you were sitting—”
Anya steps closer and gently waves her off. “Nyet, nyet,” she says with a soft smile. No, no. “Please. Sit.” There’s something calm in her tone. Assured. Polite without being weak.
My mother hesitates for half a second before allowing herself to be guided into the chair Anya just vacated.
“Would you like some coffee?” Anya asks her.
My mother brightens immediately. “Yes, please.”
Anya turns toward the counter without waiting for further instruction, moving easily through my kitchen like she’s been here longer than twelve hours. I start unpacking the grocerybags while Anya pours coffee into a mug and adds creamer with careful attention.
“Spasibo,” my mother says as Anya hands it to her.Thank you.
“Pozhaluysta,” Anya replies.You’re welcome.
