“Evaluation?”
She ignores me, continuing: “Pros: She might make good cookies. Lev says she’s pretty. She has a job, so she’s not lazy. She might read books with the voices.” She pauses, glancing up. “Does she do the voices when she reads?”
“I don’t know.”
Alya frowns, making a small note. “We’ll find out.” She continues, “Cons: She might be allergic to Mishka.” She hugs the bear tighter. “She might not know ballet. She might not let me stay up for movie night. She might steal all your attention.”
She looks up, oddly vulnerable. “Will she?”
Something twists in my chest. “No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Does she love you?” she interrupts, looking at me with sudden intensity.
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Does she love you?” Alya repeats, more insistent. “In all my storybooks, the prince and princess get married because they love each other. So, do you love Isabella? Does she love you?”
I stare at my daughter, unprepared for this particular line of questioning.
“It’s…complicated,” I say finally.
She scrunches her nose. “That’s what adults say when they don’t want to answer.”
“Alya—”
“Last one,” she insists. “Most important question: Does she know you don’t smile a lot?”
I freeze, studying my daughter’s face. There’s nothing childish in her expression now.
“What do you mean?”
She sighs like I’m being deliberately obtuse.
"You’re always serious. Always…” she searches for the word, her small brow furrowed, “frowning.” She traces an invisible line between her own eyebrows, mimicking the crease that’s become permanent on my face. “What if she wants someone who laughs? What if she leaves because you never look happy?”
Something cold slides down my spine. I hadn’t realized Alya had noticed. Hadn’t realized she worried about it.
“I smile,” I say, the words sounding hollow even to me.
Alya gives me a look that’s far too knowing for her eight years.
“Notrealones. Not the kind that make your eyes crinkle like in the old pictures withDedushka. Before he got sick.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She’s right. Of course she’s right.
She waves her hand vaguely. “With us. With you. With… everything.” She looks down at Mishka, adjusting his tie with careful fingers.
“She might run away if you’re too grumpy all the time.”
The observation hits harder than I expected. When did my daughter become so perceptive? And why does it feel like she’s looking straight through me, seeing things I’ve tried to bury?
“I’ll work on it,” I say quietly.
Alya looks up, surprised. Then her face breaks into a brilliant smile—the kind I apparently no longer know how to give.
