was misplaced.
“Elena is not another woman,” I told him coolly. “I know you are trying to look out for me, but this does not concern you.”
“You don’t even really know her,” Roman insisted.
“I know,” I said. “It’s fascinating.”
Two days later, Tatiana felt strong enough to join us for breakfast.
Dmitri hovered by her side as she slowly walked down the stairs—she’d warned him if he tried to help her, she would kick him in the balls—and made her way to the dining room. Like usual, Anton danced around her ankles, overjoyed his mother had left her room.
Even Babushka decided to join us, leaping onto the top of the fridge and watching us all carefully.
My family took their seats around the table, with Elena tucked in between Roksana and Danika. The women thought they were protecting Elena from the cruel attention of the men.
Elena had relaxed only slightly in the past few days. She spent most of her day at the lab or with Tatiana, and most of her nights sorting through the library. Distant and reserved—still unsolved by Danika.
“Uncle Kostya,” Anton called as he clambered onto a chair. He refused to sit in a highchair; Anton liked copying his father and uncles.
“Anton,” I greeted.
Anton stood up, steadying himself on the table for support. Artyom wrapped an arm around the back of his chair, ready to catch the toddler if he fell. Chances were, he would.
“Sit on your bottom, Anton,” called Tatiana. Dmitri was filling her plate with bright fresh fruits, favoring strawberries, Tatiana’s favorite.
Anton smiled cheekily at his mother but did not sit. Instead, he reached out and picked up a piece of melon, shoving it into his face. Juices ran down and stained his pajamas.
“Anton, you’re making a mess,” I told him, passing him a napkin. He looked at me with wide eyes. “How about you do as your mother says and sit?”
Immediately, Anton plopped onto his bottom, his little head peeking over the top of the table. He looked to me for praise.
“Very good.”
From the other end of the table, Tatiana sighed, but the smile on her face stopped us from believing she was actually mad.
“I made your favorite, Tatiana,” Danika said, passing a plate of purple pancakes down the table. Dmitri took it from her. “They were having a sale on blueberries and Artyom and I went a little overboard.”
“They bought 5 kilos worth of berries, Tat,” Roksana laughed.
“It was a good deal,” Artyom interrupted. “We saved 45 dollars, dorogaya.”
“Oh, they’re practically paying for themselves,” she teased.
Artyom set his jaw but a slither of a smile peeked through.
Roman laughed. “Where are you keeping them all?”
“The outdoor fridge,” Artyom answered.
“The booze fridge?” Roman demanded, nearly leaping over the table to swipe at my Obshchak. “You can’t put fruit in there—you’re taking space from things we actually need.”
Danika butted in, “Ridiculous amounts of alcohol?”
“Exactly.” Roman pointed a fork at her. “Including your own.”
“I have a fridge in my room,” she said.
His jaw dropped and he turned to me, “Dani’s allowed a fridge in her room but I’m not?”
“Because of the incident, Roman,” I reminded him.
“That was one time!”
“Incident?” came Elena’s voice. She peered at both Roman and I with curiosity. “What happened?”
Voices clashed together as everyone tried to tell the story, with Roman trying to change exaggerated facts at the top of his lungs. I held up a hand and they fell quiet, though there was still some mutterings and quiet snipes at Roman.
“Roman,” I said to Elena, “decided he was sick of sharing food. He kept all his meals in his own personal fridge; however, he didn’t take very good care of it and it broke down. Roman didn’t figure out it had broken down until a few days later.”
Elena cringed, imaging what happened. “I bet it stunk.”
“Oh, God, did it stink,” Danika whined.
“The entire house smelled like fish for a week,” Artyom agreed.
Roman leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “If you greedy animals hadn’t kept stealing my food, I wouldn’t have kept it in my room.”
I smiled and said to Elena, “This was before we had community meals. Now all food stays downstairs.”
Anton blabbered something that sounded like Elena’s name. “Lena, Lena,” he cooed.
She turned, and he stretched out a sticky hand, a blueberry in the center.
“Oh,” she said as she took it from him, trying very hard not to get any mess on her hands, “thank you, Anton.”
He grinned.
Tatiana smiled, leaning forward. “Very good job sharing, Anton. You share better than your daddy.”
Dmitri huffed but