But inside, Hans’ thoughts churned. Why lie about your father? Why lie about your past? What are you running from, Adrik? And why won’t you trust me with the complete truth?
Adrik finally looked to his side, meeting Hans’ eyes for a brief, fragile moment. There was something raw there—fear, maybe. Or guilt. Or the weight of a secret too heavy to speak aloud.
Hans swallowed hard. Whatever it is… I’ll wait. I’ll stay. Just don’t shut me out.
“Let’s order,” Anneliese said, trying to rescue the evening.
Hans forced a smile, but his mind stayed tangled in the lies Adrik had told—and the shadows behind them.
The conversation stumbled for a while—awkward pauses, his father’s suspicious questions, Adrik’s clipped answers. His heart was pounding the whole time.He’s going to hate this. He’s going to want to leave. He’s going to think my family is too much.
But then, somewhere between the main course and dessert, things softened. Anneliese asked about Adrik’s favorite German foods, and he actually laughed. She complimented his accent. That started another storm.
“Adrik, you speak English as if it’s your native language,” Anneliese said.
“I was educated in America, and both my parents are bilingual.”
“You sound like you’re from New York City,” Fredrich said.
“I received most of my education there.”
“Your parents sent you away?” Anneliese asked.
“Yes. I have cousins there, so I stayed with them.”
Then Anneliese smiled warmly and said, “Traveling so young must have been exciting. Did you fly often as a child?”
Adrik hesitated, then nodded. “More than I wanted to.”
Friedrich lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Hans felt his stomach clench. Please don’t let this turn into another interrogation.
But Adrik surprised him. He straightened a little, as if deciding to offer something real—something safe.
“When I was ten,” Adrik began, “I flew home alone from New York after the school year ended. My parents were supposed to meet me at the gate in Moscow.”
“What happened?” Annaliese asked.
Hans saw the flicker of discomfort in Adrik’s eyes, the way he rubbed his thumb against the edge of his napkin. He doesn’t tell stories like this. Not easily.
“They weren’t there,” Adrik continued.
Anneliese’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh no. Why not?”
“They were given the wrong gate number.” He let out a small, humorless breath. “So I walked out into the terminal and… nothing. Just crowds. Noise. People rushing past me. I didn’t recognize anyone.”
Hans felt the ache of it—ten-year-old Adrik, alone in a foreign airport, trying not to cry.But that was just another lie. He had never lived in Russia.
“That must have been frightening,” Anneliese said softly.
“It was.” Adrik’s voice stayed even, but Hans heard the strain beneath it. “I remember standing there with my backpack, trying to decide if I should ask for help or just wait. I kept thinking maybe they weren’t coming.”
Friedrich frowned, arms crossing. “Airports don’t just lose children.”
Hans shot him a sharp look.Dad, not now.
But Adrik didn’t flinch. “They didn’t lose me. My parents just… weren’t where they were supposed to be. They were given the wrong gate number.” A pause. “Still, that feeling—being alone in a place that big—it stays with you.”
