"What should we name her?" Lily asks.
I already know. Have known for months.
"Vera," I say. "It means faith."
Lily's eyes fill with fresh tears. "Vera. It's beautiful."
"She's our new beginning. Our faith in something better." I stroke my daughter's cheek with one finger. "I want her to carry that."
"Vera Morozova." Lily tests the name. Smiles. "Perfect."
It is.
Everything is.
Five Years Later
Lily
The house is chaos.
Good chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Vera is chasing her brother Sasha through the living room, both of them shrieking at volumes that should be illegal before 9 AM. At five, she's all dark hair and her father's ice-blue eyes—an unsettling combination that makes her look like a tiny, furious angel when she's mad. Which is often. Sasha is three, with my dark curls and green eyes, a bruise on his knee from yesterday's adventure, and absolutely no fear of anything.
Baby Nika is in her highchair, methodically dropping cereal on the floor one piece at a time and watching it fall with serious concentration. At one, she's the only one who got a mix—Leonid's lighter coloring with wispy brown hair, and eyes that can't decide if they're blue or green depending on the light.
And I'm standing at the stove making pancakes while simultaneously trying to prevent anyone from dying.
"Vera Morozova, if you knock over that lamp one more time!"
"He started it!"
"I don't care who started it. Walk. In the house."
She slows to a theatrical walk, shooting her three-year-old brother a look that promises retribution the moment I turn my back.
God, she's so much like her father.
Leonid appears in the kitchen doorway, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a henley that does unreasonable things to his shoulders. Even after five years of marriage and three—almost four—kids, the sight of him still makes my stomach flip.
"Papa!" Sasha abandons his pursuit of his sister and launches himself at Leonid's legs. "Vera won't share!"
"Sharing is important," Leonid says gravely, scooping him up. "What isn't she sharing?"
"The good crayons."
"Ah. A serious offense." He carries Sasha to the table, deposits him in his chair. "We'll discuss proper crayon distribution after breakfast. For now—" He looks at Vera. "Share."
"But Papa!"
"Vera."
One word. That's all it takes. Vera sighs dramatically and goes to retrieve the coveted crayons.
Leonid crosses to me, slides his arms around my waist from behind, and rests his chin on my shoulder. His hands settle on my belly—round now, six months along with number four.
"Good morning," he murmurs against my neck.
"Morning." I lean back into him. "Your children are feral."
