She was beautiful, even pushing into her late sixties and dressed in a drab white uniform that told me she was probably a maid. She watched me as tears spilled down her cheeks.
With an uneasy sensation filling me, I said, “Ronan . . .”
He grabbed my hand and walked us to her table.
“Mon Dieu,” she breathed before getting to her feet and placing her hands on my face. “Si belle. Tellement comme ma Tatianna . . . So much like my Tatianna.”
My chest twisted as the knowledge sank in.
She was Tatianna’s mother.
My grandmother.
She pulled me into her arms and sobbed. The shock faded beneath her soft embrace. All those times I’d dreamed, wanted, needed this familial affection flashed through my mind like still shots, each picture fading away as my chest was sewn back together with a needle and thread. I didn’t even know this woman, but tears fell at the pain of the past and the relief of letting it go.
She pulled back to look at me, wonder glistening in her wet eyes. “You are probably shocked right now.”
Throat tight, I nodded.
“Me too.” She exhaled deeply to compose herself. “Please, sit down with me. I would love to get to know you and answer any questions you have.”
Nervously, I glanced at Ronan, who asked, “Ty khochesh’, chtoby ya ostalsya?” Do you want me to stay?
I wasn’t sure why he was using Russian or if he even realized he’d done it. Reservation flared behind his eyes, and I had the feeling he might think I would no longer need him now I was reconnected with my family. He was wrong. But this was something I needed to do alone, so I shook my head and spoke in Russian, hoping it would reassure him. “Ne ukhodi daleko.” Don’t go far.
He gave me a long look before walking over to the bar.
After I took a seat across from my estranged grandmother, she stared at me for a long time, another one of her tears escaping. “I’m sorry. You look so much like Tatianna, it’s shocking.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve probably figured out by now I am—was—Tatianna’s mother. My name is Estelle.”
All I could manage was, “I’m Mila.”
“I know. That man”—she looked toward the bar at Ronan—“got ahold of me and told me a little about you. I did not know you existed until recently.” Nervously, she played with her napkin. “I am angry I have missed so much of your life, but also so blessed to finally find you.”
“Tatianna never told you about me?”
She frowned. “No. My daughter left home when she was sixteen in search of better things, I suppose. I never saw her again . . . Well, that is not true. I saw her in a few magazines.” She gave me a sad smile. “But I am curious about why you speak of her as if you didn’t know her.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t. I saw her visit my papa sometimes when I was little, but I never did meet her.”
She shook her head. “Oh, Tatianna. Comment as-tu pu faire ça à ta fille?” How could you do that to your daughter? “There is something you should know about your mother. She looked healthy on the outside, but on the inside . . . she was not well.” She dabbed her tears with the napkin. “Tatianna . . . lacked something inside her. She didn’t love in the same way others do . . . In fact, I’m not sure she loved at all. She may not have been in your life, but I promise you, her choice had nothing to do with you.”
I thought I’d gotten along fine without knowing much about my mother, but now, I realized I needed to hear this. It sounded like my mother really was a psychopath. I didn’t know how to process all the information, so I stared out the window at the passersby.
“You look so much like Tatianna, I thought it was her when you walked in. But I can see now, you are so much different than your mother.”
I pulled my gaze back to her. “How so?”
“Well, for starters, I never saw Tatianna cry. Not even as a child when she hurt herself.”
“I’ve been told I’m a faucet.”
She laughed. “You get that from me. I can cry at the drop of a hat.”
I smiled.
“Do you have a good relationship with your father?” she asked.
I shifted in my seat, my chest tightening. She couldn’t know my papa was the one who murdered her pregnant daughter.