He nods once and then looks past me as Anastasiya steps forward. “Papa,” she says.
He moves to her immediately, cupping her face in both hands and studying her as if confirming she is truly standing in front of him. His gaze moves over the fading bruises. He turns her wrist gently. “Who did this?” he asks in Russian.
“Volkov,” she answers.
His eyes close briefly before he pulls her into a firm embrace. He holds her tightly but not gently. When he releases her, he turns back to me. “She is leaving with me,” he says.
I look at Anastasiya before I respond. “I am not stopping her if she chooses to go.”
He repeats the word slowly. “Chooses.”
“Yes,” I say. “She decides.”
He turns to her. “Anastasiya. We are going home.”
She straightens. “I cannot.”
His gaze sharpens. “Explain what you mean.”
“I cannot go back right now,” she says.
“You were taken from our city,” he replies, his tone controlled. “You were chained in a warehouse in another country. You werehurt. You do not remain here. You need to come home and heal.”
“I am not staying there,” she answers. “I am staying here.”
“You have responsibilities,” he reminds her. “Your absence has already created complications.”
“I know that,” she says, strain creeping into her voice. “But I cannot walk back into that life as if nothing changed. As if I have not changed.”
“You were kidnapped,” he says, control thinning. “That is what changed.”
“Yes, and I survived it,” she says. “I survived because I did not break. And because he found me.”
His gaze cuts to me. “This is not about him.”
“It is not,” she insists. “It is about me.”
“You are not thinking clearly,” he says. “Trauma affects judgment.”
“Maybe it does,” she replies, lifting her chin. “Or maybe I am finally thinking clearly.”
“And what are you thinking?” he asks, clearly getting frustrated by this new outspoken version of his daughter. One who appears to be pushing back for the first time in her life.
She draws in a slow breath. “I am thinking that I have never once chosen my own life. If I get on that plane today, I go back to something that was arranged for me before I understood it. If I stay, I risk losing you. If I do not try to choose for myself even once, I lose something else entirely.”
“You would choose uncertainty over your family?” he asks quietly.
“I am not choosing against you,” she says, eyes bright but steady. “I am asking you to let me choose at all.”
He studies her for a long time. “You believe this is freedom?” he asks.
“I do not know what it is yet,” she answers. “I just know I need time.”
The silence stretches and I stay where I am.
Finally, he nods once. “Very well. We will not leave tonight. We will stay nearby and you will think carefully. Remember daughter, time does not remove responsibility.”
“I understand that,” she says.
