an image of my little brother. He has the same long eyelashes and chubby pink cheeks. The same dark shag of hair and button nose. He’s the spitting image of his father. Staring at him makes me hurt in a way I didn’t think I could.
“I’ll try,” he says. “No promise.”
I laugh despite how on edge I am. “You’re a smart-ass just like your dad, too, you know that?”
“I miss my daddy,” he says somberly.
“So do I.” It’s the only reply I can give him.
I keep racking my brain for other answers to the problems confronting the two of us. Hired nannies didn’t work. Yaroslav didn’t work.
What else is there?
“I’ve still got some work to do. I need you to finish your nap while I work. You tell Uncle Yaroslav to come get me if you have another bad dream, okay?”
“Okay.” Nikolas climbs back into bed and I tuck him in.
“Sleep tight...”
“…Don’t let the bed bugs bite,” he finishes. That was what Dmitry always used to say to him. It feels wrong coming out of my mouth, but it seems to comfort him.
After a moment of watching him fall asleep, I step out and leave the door open a crack.
8
Victoria
Dad’s slowly starting to get better, but for some reason, he insists that I stay near him. The doctors let him leave the hospital a few days after his attack, so for the past few weeks, he’s been calling me every day, asking if I can take care of one problem or another.
At first, I didn’t mind the constant trips. I could’ve lost him that night. I’m still not over the fear.
But it’s been three weeks since the attack and from what I can see, he’s mostly healed up and feeling better. When I’m around and looking after him, he acts mildly helpless, always asking me to hand him the remote or make something for dinner.
And yet, if I stand in the kitchen and watch him from a distance, I can see that he’s perfectly capable of doing things he pretends he can’t.
It’s frustrating, but I don’t bring it up to him. Maybe this is some sort of codependency thing. Maybe the attack shook him up and he’s scared that if I leave him, he’ll be vulnerable to another group of thugs roughing him up.
Or maybe he’s just milking me for all my time and energy so I’ll take care of him and he won’t have to lift a finger.
I try to keep my bitterness toned down as I wander through the grocery store picking up things that I’ll need for the next few days. I stop to pick out a box of pasta.
I love my dad, I do, but he brings chaos to my life, and right now, I want to keep a clear head. I’ll be starting law school soon enough, and I can’t keep running back to check in on him while I’m studying for exams.
Eventually, I’m going to have to cut the umbilical cord, so to speak. I’m already anticipating the fit he’ll throw when I finally work up the courage to stop helping him so much.
I continue through the grocery store. I grab a bag full of tomatoes and a carton of strawberries. When I make it to the junk food aisle, I stop and grab his favorite chips. As I do, I glance over to see two boys bickering with each other. Their mother tries to shush them, but they end up getting louder, practically screaming at her. She looks worn down and exhausted.
I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be in her shoes. I’ve always loved kids, and someday I want a few of my own, but every time the baby fever starts to hit, I see a situation like this: a weary-eyed woman trying and failing to wrangle her wild children. It reminds me how hard it is to be a mom.
The mother meets eyes with me and I give her a sympathetic smile. She seems to appreciate it because she returns the gesture before scolding her children in that hushed, angry voice all moms seem to have mastered.
For a moment, it feels like we’re sharing a connection. Like we both understand how it feels to wrestle stubborn little boys—her with her kids, me with my dad—through the routines of a normal day, a normal life. Like we both really get each other.
Then her husband returns from the next aisle over, and I freeze.