Page 136 of Cruel Submission

“Sorry, Mama!”

Aleks doesn’t look sorry. He grins with his whole face. Nearly six years old and already impossible to contain. He takes off running after the ball, arms pumping. Sara chases him. She always chases him. Five years old and seven months younger than Aleks, but she keeps pace with typical determination. My daughter, through and through—stubborn as a mule, clever as a fox, and completely incapable of letting anyone else win.

“Arty, nyet! Put that down—” I lunge for the garden hose Arty has managed to drag across the terrace. Too late. A jet of water hits Adrik square in the face. Adrik doesn’t cry. He blinks, opens his mouth, and screams—not out of pain, but indignation. Then he grabs his brother’s shirt and bites him.

“Blyad.” I scoop up one twin under each arm. They weigh nothing. They weigh everything. Two years old and already conspiring to destroy whatever room they occupy. I separate them on opposite ends of the outdoor sofa and point at each one in turn. “No biting. No hose. Sit.”

Arty gives me a look of such pure defiance that I almost laugh. Almost. That face is mine, the same vertical crease between the brows when something doesn’t go his way.

Adrik is already climbing off the sofa.

I put him back. “Sidite, oba. Sit. Both of you.”

They sit. For approximately nine seconds.

Mirabel appears beside me, coffee in hand, Sara’s juice box in the other. Her hair is pulled up in a loose knot, chestnut strands escaping in every direction, the caramel streaks catching afternoon light. She wears a green linen dress—always beautiful in green, my zaychik—and there’s a smear of yogurt on her collarbone that she hasn’t noticed.

I want to lick it off.

Five years married, four children, and this woman still undoes me with a yogurt stain.

“Your sons are feral animals,” she says, watching Arty scale the arm of the sofa again.

“When they misbehave, they’re my sons. When they sleep, they’re yours.”

“Because I’m the one who gets them to sleep.”

“Exactly. Credit where it’s due.”

She bumps her hip against mine, and I hook an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. The warmth of her body settles something in my chest.

A shriek from the far end of the lawn pulls our attention. Debra’s oldest, Mila, has commandeered the soccer ball and is refusing to give it back. Aleks tries diplomacy first—impressive, for his age—but Mila doesn’t negotiate.

Yanis rounds the corner of the house, his three-year-old son Mika riding his shoulders like a small emperor surveying his kingdom. My brother looks relaxed in a way he didn’t used to. Softer around the edges. He sets Mika down, and the boy rockets toward the other children without a backward glance.

“I heard screaming,” Yanis says.

“Arty bit Adrik.”

“Again?”

“Da.”

“He gets that from you.” Yanis settles into the chair beside me. His youngest, baby Lena, sleeps against Debra’s shoulder as Debra walks toward us across the lawn, her steps slow and easy. She wears lavender today, and she moves through open space with a confidence that took years to rebuild. Mirabel watches her twin cross the grass, and something passes between them—that silent language they share.

Debra sits beside Mirabel. Lena stirs, makes a small sound, and settles again. The two sisters lean into each other, shoulders touching, and for a moment, they are mirror images. The same… but different. Debra still carries her history in moments she thinks no one is looking. Yanis watches for those moments. He always watches. Not hovering but present. Ready.

They’re good together. The kind of good that doesn’t make noise.

“Papa! Papa, watch!” Sara calls from the top of the garden wall beside me. She stands with her arms out, wobbling. My entire body tenses.

“I see you, malyshka,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Jump. I’ll catch you.”

She launches. I’m already there, arms out, and she lands against my chest with a thump that knocks the air out of me. She smells like grass and strawberry ice cream and the lavender soap Mirabel uses for their baths. She wraps her arms around my neck and squeezes, her small fingers pressing into my skin.

“Good catch, Papa.”

“Always.”