“Try not to drop her,” I said, my voice dry, before turning back to coo at my daughter.
My child.
Whole. Well. Alive.
“She feels… damp,” Bogdan said, his eyes moving between us with barely concealed alarm.
“Right,” Konstantin said, scrolling.“I found something. Basic care for a baby at five months.”
“Go on,” I said, already moving toward the suitcase.
“For sleeping—baby should still sleep in your room. They require twelve to sixteen hours of sleep per day.”
“Mm,” Bogdan said, staring down at Runa’s head as though it might provide further instruction.
“Breastmilk or formula is sufficient at this stage.”
I pulled the suitcase open and began rummaging. Nappies—a considerable supply. Jars and pouches of food. I reached for a rolled bag, opened it, found more bags inside, and eventually extracted several bottles of milk. Breastmilk, possibly. I hadn’t quite factored that in.
“Nappies will be wet several times a day. Bowel movements once a day or every few days—as long as the stool is soft, that’s acceptable.”
“Who is changing the nappy?” Bogdan asked, lifting Runa slightly off his lap as though the question and the action were related.
Konstantin carried on as though he hadn’t heard him.
“Bathing a few times a week is sufficient. Then there is playtime—toys, reading, and apparently babies love bubbles.” A pause.“There is something called tummy time that strengthens the upper body.”
I shoved a milk bottle into Konstantin’s hand.
“Look up how to warm breastmilk,” I said, and gathered a nappy, ointment and sensitive wipes before taking Runa from Bogdan, who looked immediately and profoundly relieved.
“You’ll want to air her out a little,” Konstantin added, still scrolling.“Prevents nappy rash.”
I held up the ointment. I had done some research of my own.
Bogdan’s jacket went down on the table. I laid Runa on it and considered the logistics of the nappy while she began gearing up for another round of screaming. I moved faster.
This was not easy.
My mind went to Iskra. I shut it down.
Here was my child—and she was terrified of me. Her own father.
That fucking deceitful bitch.
“Straps at the sides,” Konstantin said, holding his phone up helpfully.
I managed it.
Clean. Fresh. Fed.
She fell into an exhausted slumber in my arms with the absolute totality of a baby who had run out of everything and surrendered to sleep as the only remaining option. I inspected every part of her in the quiet—her tiny ears, the curve of her cheek, the dark hair that was all mine, the fist that had gripped my lapel in Istanbul and hadn’t fully let go of the memory of it.
Her passport listed her date of birth and full name.
Runa Valeria Kozlova.
That would be amended.
