My wife.
I pressed the knife down with him.
The blade slid through buttercream and sponge. Oksana eased the first slice free and tipped it onto the plate.
Blue filled the center.
Bright, unmistakable blue.
The silence broke all at once.
Tamar gasped, clapped both hands over her mouth, and made a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
Petya whispered, “A boy.”
Galina closed her eyes.
Vadim went completely still behind me.
I stared at the blue cake, at the impossible little declaration tucked inside sugar and cream, and my hand flew to my stomach.
A son.
Our son.
Vadim’s arm came around me from behind as my balance tipped. His palm settled over my belly, warm and possessive and shaking just enough that I felt it.
Applause rose around us. Laughter. Tamar crying openly now and pretending she wasn’t. Petya wiping his face with his sleeve and turning away when Lev handed him a napkin without comment. Galina kissing both my cheeks, then Vadim’s, then pressing her hand over mine for one brief, fierce second.
“My grandson,” she said.
Vadim still hadn’t spoken.
I turned in his arms.
His mouth softened. His eyes looked too bright, and for a breath he only stared at me and the small curve beneath my dress.
At my stomach.
On our son.
“Vadim,” I whispered.
He looked at me then.
I’d seen him angry. Hungry. Tender. Terrifying. I’d seen him after blood, after sex, after grief, after victory. I’d seen him in the dark with all the city on his shoulders.
His throat worked once before he spoke.
“A boy,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Our son.”
“Yes.”
He put both hands on my face and kissed me in front of everyone.
