She turns slightly, surprised by the question.
“In Russia,” I add.
For a second, she doesn’t answer.
Like she’s deciding how much to give me.
Then her gaze drifts back to the water.
“It was…structured,” she says slowly. “Disciplined.”
A small pause.
“My father believed in strength above everything else. Not just physical strength—control, composure, awareness.”
I listen.
Carefully.
“I didn’t have a normal childhood,” she continues, a faint smile touching her lips. “No playing outside with friends. No…softness, I guess.”
The smile fades slightly.
“But I wasn’t unhappy,” she adds. “I just didn’t know anything different.”
Her voice is calm.
Not bitter.
Just…honest.
I study her profile as the light catches her face.
“What would you have changed?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Her gaze stays on the water, thoughtful, distant—like she’s reaching back into something she hasn’t examined in a long time.
When she finally speaks, her voice is softer.
“I think….” She pauses, then exhales lightly. “I would have liked something gentler.”
I don’t interrupt.
“I loved my father,” she continues. “I still do. But his love was….” She searches for the word. “…hard. Everything was about strength. Survival. Control.”
Her shoulders lift slightly.
“I would have liked to grow up with soft love too.”
Something tightens in my chest at that.
Without thinking, my hand moves to her stomach.
Instinct.
I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.
