They’ve never had this.
Not both parents in the kitchen. Not warmth. Not a woman humming softly while folding napkins with one hand and checking Alya’s socks with the other.
Not this much… quiet joy.
The maids are smiling. Even Oleg’s lips twitch when Alya announces she needs “sparkly snacks” for recess, and Bella actually writes it down like it’s a real thing.
And me?
I’m standing here like a stranger in my own house. Like I stepped into a life that isn’t mine.
Because I didn’t grow up like this.
My father didn’t take me to school. My mother never packed lunches. We had handlers. Tutors. Expectations. Love was leverage. Attention was currency. Every gesture meant something, and softness wasn’t survival—it was a liability.
But this?
This is something else.
“Lev,” Bella says, handing him his bottle, “if you don’t drink water today, I’m telling your coach you’re dehydrated and making you run laps.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s the ghost of a smile when he turns toward the door.
“Papa,” Alya calls, twirling her dress again. “I wore purple ‘cause that’s your favorite.”
“It’s black.”
“Well, you said purple’s close enough when you’re in a good mood.”
I blink. That conversation happened months ago. I didn’t think she remembered. I didn’t thinkIremembered.
Bella’s eyes flick to mine again. And this time, she doesn’t look away.
This—whateverthisis—it’s changing things.
And I don’t know if I want it to.
Because change means risk. And risk means weakness. And weakness gets people hurt.
But watching my daughter skip down the hallway, watching Lev and Nikolai bicker over the front seat like it matters, hearing Bella’s laughter echo in my kitchen—
It doesn’t feel weak.
It feels like something I never thought I’d get.
And I have no fucking idea what to do with that.
44
Bella
“Nyet, nyet, Alya… not ‘pajama.’” Konstantin’s voice rumbles beside me, patient in a way that should be illegal. “Pomni,notpajama.”
Alya giggles like it’s the best punchline she’s ever heard. “Butpaaaajamasounds better!”
