Daria keeps talking. “Then she stood up, bowed again, and whispered way too loudly, ‘I didn’t even mess up the hard part.’ Half the room heard her.”
A laugh slips out of me, and it breaks somewhere in the middle.
Daria goes quiet before she asks, “Polina, what’s wrong?”
Too many answers rush forward at once.
I’m pregnant.
I’m in a compound waiting for men to start killing each other.
I’m in love with someone who belongs to the wrong family and somehow also the only one I want.
I don’t know what kind of world I can offer a child except one built on blood and bargaining.
The words rise all the way to the back of my teeth, but for the life of me, I can’t get them out.
Daria must hear something in silence, because her voice takes on that maternal quality it always does when she’s soothing her daughter. “Hey, talk to me.”
I stare at my hand on my stomach. My child. My baby. Mine and Lev’s.
“I…” My voice catches. I clear it and try again. “I’ve just had a long day.”
She doesn’t buy that for a second. “Did something happen with Dmitri? Pyotr told me things have been pretty active over there.”
“No.”
“With Lev?”
The name alone sends a fresh wave through me. Love. Fear. Anger that he exists inside all of this so completely.
I press my lips together and choke back a sob.
“Are you crying?” Daria asks.
“No,” I reply with a sniffle.
“You’re a terrible liar. Do you want me to come there?”
My eyes burn. God, I want that. I want my sister on the edge of this bed. I want her hand in my hair and her voice telling me exactly what to do next. I want one hour where I don’t have to be smart, controlled, or useful.
But if Daria comes here, then she sees. Then she asks questions. Then this starts moving forward.
“No,” I respond in a whisper. “Don’t come.”
There’s another pause, then, very gently, “Tell me what you need.”
The truth sits there, ready. One sentence and my life changes shape.
I’m pregnant.
“I need,” I say, forcing each word into place, “five hours of uninterrupted sleep and for you to stop diagnosing me over the phone.”
Daria lets out a slow breath. She knows I’m evading. She also knows when to leave a bruise alone.
“Fine,” she relents. “But I’m calling tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
