My mother beams at her, already charmed. “And,” my mother adds proudly, reaching for one of the containers she brought, “I made pirozhki.” She opens the lid. The smell hits immediately. Warm dough. Savory filling.
Anya and I look at each other at the same time. “You made pirozhki?” Anya says, eyes lighting up in a way I haven’t seen yet. I can’t help it. “You brought pirozhki and didn’t lead with that?”
My mother laughs, clearly pleased with the reaction. “Of course I did.”
Anya sets the coffee down carefully in front of my mother and straightens, smoothing her hair back instinctively. She looks composed, even in my shirt, even with fading bruises along her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” she says warmly. “I should introduce myself properly—”
“Anastasiya,” I cut in gently.
Both women look at me.
I step forward a little, not claiming her, not speaking over her, just making it clear she doesn’t have to carry this part alone.
“Mama,” I say, meeting my mother’s eyes, “this is Anastasiya.”
My mother’s expression shifts instantly. Not surprise. Not suspicion. Just attention.
“It’s very nice to meet you, Anastasiya,” she says, taking her hand.
“And this,” I add quietly, “is my mother. Irina Kovacs.”
Anya’s posture softens just slightly at the name.
Irina studies her for a long second, and I find myself watching the interaction like it’s something fragile.
My mother is in her early fifties, but there’s nothing delicate about her. Her dark hair is pulled back neatly, silver threading through at the temples in a way that looks earned rather than accidental. Fine lines frame her eyes when she smiles, but they only make her more beautiful. She carries herself straight and steady, warmth in her expression and steel beneath it. Life hasn’t made her brittle. It’s made her strong.
It’s been just the two of us for a long time.
And now she’s standing in my kitchen, shaking hands with Viktor Dragunov’s daughter like this is just another Tuesday morning.
FIVE
ANYA
The kitchen feels warmerthis morning, not just from the stove but from the way Roman’s mother fills it. She talks with her hands and laughs with her whole chest, and she keeps sliding the plate of pirozhki toward us like we’re going to pretend we’re full if she doesn’t watch us closely. Roman rolls his eyes at her in that long-practiced way sons do, but he still takes another one when she nudges the plate closer.
“You eat like you are still sixteen,” she tells him in Russian.
“And you cook like I am still sixteen,” he answers, reaching for more anyway.
I smile into my coffee because it feels intimate to watch them like this. Familiar. Loud in the small ways that families are loud. My childhood breakfasts were quieter. Structured. Scheduled. My father rarely lingered at the table unless there was something to discuss. Something strategic.
Here, no one is discussing strategy. Roman’s mother asks him if he’s been sleeping enough. He lies. She calls him out. He shrugs.She tells me he was stubborn as a child and refused to wear a coat even in snow. He denies it. She ignores him.
It’s easy to forget myself for a few minutes.
She turns to me eventually, of course. “So, Anastasiya,” she says, pronouncing it carefully, like she wants to get it right. “How do you like it here?”
The question is gentle. Casual.
I feel Roman’s attention shift toward me without looking at him.
“It’s… different,” I say, because that is safe.
She studies my face as I answer, and I realize too late that I should have adjusted the sleeve of Roman’s shirt. The fabric slips back just enough to expose my wrist. The bruising is lighter than it was yesterday, but it is still there. Yellow around the edges. Faint green beneath the skin.
