"You're too little," Miron says, but he's already looking around for something to demonstrate with.
"Miron." Viktor's voice cuts across the yard. "No knives. We talked about this."
"But Papa—"
"No."
Miron sighs with the weight of the world and settles for showing Sasha how to do a proper combat roll instead. Sasha attempts it, faceplants into the grass, and comes up laughing.
Viktor shakes his head but I catch the ghost of a smile.
Nika toddles over to where Leonid is sitting, demands "Up," and is immediately lifted onto his lap. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and watches her siblings with solemn interest.
"She's got your eyes," Isabella says, settling into the chair next to me with a glass of lemonade.
"And his temperament, unfortunately. Already giving me looks that could kill."
"Sofia was the same at that age. Now she's ten and thinks she's everyone's mother." Isabella watches her daughter, who is now letting Vera put clips in her hair—sitting perfectly still while the five-year-old makes a mess of it. "She told Viktor last week that she wants to learn to shoot."
"What did he say?"
"That she has to master hand-to-hand first." Isabella rolls her eyes. "They're already doing drills in the backyard. My daughter can disarm a grown man, but sure, let's add firearms."
I laugh. "Leonid tried to teach Vera chess as a 'strategic thinking exercise.' She's five. She just likes knocking the pieces over."
"They can't help themselves. Everything's training to them."
We watch Viktor intercept Miron, who has found a stick and is showing Sasha the "correct" way to hold a weapon. Viktor confiscates the stick, says something quiet, and Miron droops.
"He's been obsessed with being like Viktor lately," Isabella says. "Follows him everywhere. Wants to know everything about 'Papa's work.' We've had to get creative with explanations."
"What do you tell him?"
"That Papa helps keep people safe. That sometimes that means making hard decisions." She shrugs. "It's not untrue."
Sofia appears at her mother's elbow, Vera trailing behind her clutching a stuffed animal. "Mama, can I babysit Vera sometime? I'm old enough now."
"We'll talk about it."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true." Isabella smooths Sofia's hair. "Go play,solnyshko."
Sofia sighs—a perfect teenage sigh despite being only ten—and takes Vera's hand to lead her back to the other kids.
"I still can't believe it sometimes," Isabella says, watching her go. "Viktor Morozov, teaching our son to ride a bike. Braiding our daughter's hair. Making pancakes on Saturday mornings." She shakes her head. "If you'd told me seven years ago this was where we'd end up..."
"I know." I watch Leonid emerge from the house with a tray of drinks, Sasha immediately abandoning Miron to run to him. "I was on an auction block five years ago. Thought my life was over. And now..."
I gesture at the yard. The chaos. The noise. Thelife.
"He still looks at you the same way," Isabella says. "Viktor does too, with me. Like they still can't believe we're real."
"They spent a long time convincing themselves they didn't need this. Hard habit to break."
"Good thing we're patient."
She clinks her glass of sparkling water against mine.
