Maxim has been showing up for Sunday breakfast for three weeks now. At first, the twins were wary. Now Mila runs to hug him when he arrives, and Alexei immediately starts talking about whatever he’s building.
This morning is no different. Mila abandons her strawberries to show Maxim the flower she picked yesterday. Alexei launches into an explanation of his latest train track modification.
Maxim listens to both of them with patience I didn’t think he had. Asks questions. Acts interested. Stays until after lunch, helping with whatever project the twins have invented.
We eat breakfast together, all five of us. Pancakes, pastries, and fruit. The twins chatter. Maxim engages with them. Luca pours more coffee and touches the small of my back when he passes behind my chair.
Small casual touches happen now. His hand on my shoulder. My fingers brushing his when we pass things. Standing close enough to feel the heat of his body.
Things I never thought I’d have with him.
Things I’m terrified to want.
After breakfast, I tell the twins we’re visiting Grandma and Grandpa.
“Can Papa come?” Mila asks.
I glance at Luca. He raises an eyebrow. Asking without words.
“Not this time,” I say. “Just us today.”
The drive to my parents’ house takes thirty minutes. The twins talk the entire time about pancakes and Maxim and the train track and a hundred other things. I listen and respond and try not to think about how different this is from four months ago.
Four months ago, I was living in this house. Single mother with twins. Dependent on my parents. Working part-time jobs. Surviving day to day.
Now I’m married. Living in an estate. My children have a father who reads to them every night. I sleep in my husband’s bed more nights than not.
My husband. When did I start thinking of him that way?
We pull into my parents’ driveway. The house looks smaller than I remember. Shabby. The paint is peeling near the windows. The garden needs weeding.
My mother opens the door before we reach it. “Anna! And my babies!” Mila and Alexei run to her. She hugs them both. Kisses their heads. Looks over them at me. “You look wonderful,” she says.
“I look the same.”
“No. You look happy. Come inside.”
My father is in the living room with tea already poured. He hugs the twins. Shakes my hand awkwardly like he doesn’t know how to greet his daughter anymore.
We sit. The twins immediately start telling their grandparents about everything. Papa teaching pancakes. Maxim bringing pastries. The train track. The flowers. Their words tumble over each other in excitement.
My parents listen. Smile. But I see the tension in my father’s shoulders. The way my mother’s hands twist together in her lap.
“They seem happy,” my mother says when the twins run off to play in the backyard.
“They are.”
“And you?”
I take a sip of tea. “I’m adjusting.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
My father stands. “I’ll check on the twins.”
He leaves. My mother waits until the door closes behind him. “Talk to me,” she says. “Really, talk to me. How are you?”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
