I could explain the logic and psychology behind it. But the truth beneath the logic is simpler and uglier. I want her grateful. I want the relief to be so overwhelming that it drowns out the questions she should be asking and the red flags she will probably notice. I want the yes to be so big that it swallows the doubt.
I want her to walk into my house on Saturday morning already owing me, even if the debt is only emotional.
“It’s a persuasion technique,” I offer. “Standard.”
“I’ll handle it.”
I hang up and stare at the screen one more time.
Calloway is gone. The living room is empty now, except for the little girl behind the curtain.
I close the app and set the phone face down on my thigh.
To my surprise, my pulse hasn’t settled. But it’s not a protective rush anymore. This is something else entirely — though, perhaps just as primal.
Possessiveness.
Calloway’s debt is leverage. Her desperation is insurance. Her warmth is a resource to be allocated toward my daughter’s well-being.
And just like that, my veins freeze over again.
This is what Katarina taught me. Every human connection is a transaction, every kindness is a strategy, and the only way to survive intimacy is to control it.
I learned the lesson well. Too well.
Elizabeth Calloway won’t know what hit her.
At 8:32 p.m., I arrive home and go straight to Anya’s room.
She’s in bed, not sleeping yet, just lying on her side with Mr. Whiskers tucked under her chin. Eyes still wide open.
“Hi there,” I smile, sitting on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under my weight, and she shifts toward me. “Malyshka. Did you eat dinner?”
“Yes.”
“What did Angelina make?”
“Chicken.”
One-word answers. That’s what she gives when her mood is low.
“You’ll have a new tutor on Monday,” I explain calmly, hoping to inject some excitement back into her.
Anya is quiet for a long time.
“What’s her name?” she finally asks.
“Elizabeth.”
Anya considers this. “Is she old?”
“No.”
“Is she boring?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The last one was boring,” she mutters. “She read the math problems in the same voice as the stories. Everything sounded the same. You can’t read a story about a bear the same way you read seven times eight, Papa. Those are completely different situations.”
