Meditation and breathwork will help.
First things first, I should get dinner ready. I open the refrigerator, take out some chicken breast, and slice the packaging open. For a moment, my mind imagines how the knife I’m using could slice openother things, but this time, I quickly snap myself out of it. All I have to do is glance over at Hannah and my mind returns to normal.
Hannah is my everything. We have created a life of our own, and it’s a peaceful one. We have our daily routine, and with that comes the life I have always wanted for her. Watching her doodle into her workbook, curious eyes set on the page, brings warmth to my heart. It reminds me that things are normal. Peaceful. So, with that, I set the pieces of chicken breast on thechopping board and run the knife straight through the middle of the meat.
The rest of the evening passes in our usual rhythm. Hannah chatters about her day at preschool while we eat, telling me about the finger painting they did and how Tommy shared his crackers with her at snack time. Her innocent excitement is a balm to my frayed nerves, grounding me in the simple reality of our peaceful life together. By the time we’ve cleared the dishes and she’s had her bath, the anxiety from earlier has settled into a dull ache in the back of my mind—still there, but manageable.
As the night begins to draw to a close, I get Hannah ready for bed and tuck her under the sheets, handing over one of her stuffed toys.
“Goodnight, baby.” I press a kiss to her temple, smoothing a lock of her dark hair behind her ear. “Sweet dreams.”
I’m about to head out of the room when she calls me.
“Mommy?”
I turn back around in the doorway. “What is it, angel?”
She hesitates for a moment, wide, innocent eyes staring up at me. The light from the corridor makes her face glow softly. “Tell me again how Daddy died.”
I immediately stiffen up, feeling the tension accumulate in my shoulders. “Uh.” I hesitate in the doorway, then step back into the room. I walk back toward the bed, stomach churning. This is the second time she has asked this question. “Why would you like to know this again, baby?”
“Because I had a dream about him.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
Like mother, like daughter.
She’s not the only one dreaming about the dearly departed.
I kneel beside the bed, catching her innocent eyes. They remind me of Nikolai every single time I look at her, eyes with the same deep shade of blue.
“Your daddy… he died protecting us, baby,” I explain. “He wanted to make sure that we stayed safe when you were still in my tummy.”
“Safe from what?”
I find myself hesitating. How much of this can I tell a four-year-old? The last thing I want to do is lie to her, create fairytales about how her daddy went to live with the angels. But how much of the truth can her developing mind handle? Is there a handbook about how to handle a bizarre situation like this?
She really is a mini version of me, stubborn and curious. Always looking for the truth, always wanting an explanation for everything. “From bad people, baby,” I choke out. “That is why you and I get to have the amazing life we have.”
Hannah nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. I just hope she won’t ask about this for a while. I endure enough torture just by looking into those deep blue eyes that look so much like her father’s.
Even after all this time, the wound cuts deep into my heart. It’s not just about losing the love of my life. It’s not just about the guilt. It’s also about the fact that Hannah will never get to have the father she deserves. That it will always just be the two of us.
Never three.
Four years on, and there still isn’t a day when I don’t think about that night. The pain still feels fresh, ripping through my heart like I’m tied up in that chair again in the shipping container, consumed by darkness as the gunshots ripple through the air outside. The sound of Nikolai’s body thumping to the ground plays on repeat on most nights.
Alive one minute, dead the next.
The fragility of human life.
The finite nature of it.
Once Hannah is asleep, I shut myself away in my own bedroom. I flick on the nightstand lamp and crawl under the sheets, my hand reaching for my phone. Sleep might still be in the cards if I can get some reassurance from Ethan tonight about the SUV. Perhaps he’ll say something that makes it easier to believe that I’m just a little crazy.
I pull up the chat and shoot Ethan a message.
