Page 65 of Hold the Line

I stare at the coffin lowered into the frozen ground and feel nothing but a cold, steady relief. You have absolutely no idea who that man was. The thought rings so loudly in my head I almost say it out loud. The irony of it all—the priest speaking of love and repentance while lowering a violent drunk into the earth—makes my fists itch. I want to punch something. The headstone. The priest. The fucking snow. But I stay still, my hands clasped behind my back.

My mother cries harder at the words “a father’s love,” fresh tears freezing on her cheeks. She is mourning the version of him she somehow still carries in her heart, the one that existed before the bottle and the fists took over. Even after everything he did to her—to us—she stands here weeping for him. I do not understand it. I never will. But I reach out anyway and rest a heavy hand on her shoulder, letting her lean into me. She is the only reason I am here.

Yesterday Cole had argued with me for almost an hour, voice cracking with frustration and pain meds, demanding to come with me. He wanted to be here, to stand beside me, to support me through something he thought I needed support for. I told him no. Sharper than I meant to. I would rather bring him to Russia one day to see the places that made me, to eat the food my mother makes when she is happy, to show him where I learned to skate on ponds that froze solid every winter. Not this. Not for this.

The priest finishes his empty words. The coffin disappears under dirt and snow. My mother whispers something in Russian I do not catch, and I guide her gently away from the grave, one arm around her shoulders. The cold bites at my face but I barely feel it. All I can think about is getting back to Ravensburg. Back to Cole. Back to the life I chose instead of the one my father tried to force on me.

The priest offers more condolences. I nod once, polite and empty, and lead my mother toward the car waiting at the edge of the graveyard.

My mother turns to me as I open the car door for her, snowflakes catching in her dark hair like tiny stars. Her eyes are red-rimmed, exhausted from crying, but there is a softness there that always undoes something in my chest. She reaches up and cups my face with cold hands.

“Vitya… I’m sorry I was unable to protect you properly,” she says in Russian, voice cracking on the words.

“Ma…” I scoff, helping her into the car before sliding in after her. “That’s like saying Elias would protect someone from me.”

She lets out a small, watery laugh despite everything. “He is small…”

I snort, the sound low in the quiet of the car as the driver starts the engine. The heater kicks on, fighting the Russian winter pressing in from all sides.

“Cole’s small too,” she says after a moment, glancing at me with that knowing look mothers have.

“Yeah, he is… compared to me.” I lean back against the seat, staring out at the graveyard disappearing behind us. “So, Mom… I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. And he already paid for his sins.”

I gesture vaguely toward the fresh grave we just left, the motion casual, final.

She watches me, searching my face the way only she can. I do not look away. There is nothing to hide from her—not anymore. She has lived through the same nightmare. She knows what kind of man he was. Eventually she just nods once, slow and tired, and reaches over to squeeze my hand.

The car winds through familiar streets toward the old house—toward the place I spent too many years learning how to survive. My mother is quiet for a few minutes, staring out the window at the snow-covered buildings sliding past. Then, without warning, she starts laughing. Small at first, a soft, surprised sound that builds and cracks until it turns a little hysterical, her shoulders shaking as she presses a hand over her mouth.

I stare at her, confused. “Ma?”

She wipes at her eyes, still chuckling through the tears. “Can you… oh dear… can you imagine he died because he couldn’t stop drinking? Vitya, that is so… ironic. Or poetic.”

“Mhm… yeah,” I say, my eyes fixed on the road ahead.

The laughter dies almost immediately. She turns to look at me fully, the smile fading from her face as she studies my expression. The silence stretches, heavy and knowing. “Viktor… That is why he died, isn’t it?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.

I lean my head back against the headrest of the car, staring up at the ceiling. The truth sits easy on my tongue now. No shame. No hesitation. “He touched Cole,” I say simply.

She looks at me, her eyes widening in horror, staring at her son like she is seeing something new and terrifying in the boy she raised. “Vitya…” she whispers, the name soft and broken.

She keeps looking at me for a very long, quiet moment, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the crunch of snow under the tires. I look back at her steadily, letting her see whatever she needs to see.

“He touched… Cole,” I say again, quieter this time, the words deliberate.

The silence stretches between us, thick with everything we have never fully spoken about—the years, the bruises, the fear, the survival. Then, finally, my mother reaches up with a trembling hand and pats my cheek, gentle and warm despite the cold still clinging to her fingers. “Good boy, Vitya,” she whispers.

The words settle over me like a benediction I never knew I needed. Not from a priest. Not from the grave. From her. The only person who truly understands what that man took from us.

I cover her hand with mine for a second, squeezing once, before the car turns onto the old street. The house is still there at the end of the block, small and weathered, waiting like it always does.

“But he did die because of vodka,” I say as the driver pulls into the old driveway, the tires crunching over packed snow.

My mother actually snorts at that—a sharp, surprised sound that turns into a tired little laugh. I smirk, small and private, and get out to open her door as well. I help her out of the car, steadying her on the icy path, and guide her inside the house.

The second the door opens, the smell hits us—stale alcohol, old cigarettes, and that sour, lived-in rot that never really left. My mother wrinkles her nose.

“God, this place stinks,” she mutters, already moving through the rooms and throwing windows open despite the freezing air outside. Cold wind rushes in, carrying snowflakes and the faint scent of pine from somewhere down the street.