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I tug on the robe laid neatly across the foot of the bed and step into the hallway. Each step feels like walking through a memory. I follow the low voices and pause at the base of the staircase, pressing a hand to my chest to calm the tremor building within. The aroma of something faintly savory hangs in the air—garlic, perhaps. Tomato. Pizza?
I make my way toward the sound of low voices and muffled laughter. As I approach the den, I stop in the doorway.
And there they are.
Zasha is seated on the floor, long legs sprawled out, a toy rifle across his lap. Maksim is crouched in front of him, serious-faced and wide-eyed as he aims his own plastic gun. They’re deep in some kind of battle strategy, whispering and ducking behind couch cushions.
I don’t breathe. I just watch.
My son is laughing. Zasha is smiling. And the sight of it breaks me in a way nothing else has.
I stay silent, but Zasha turns his head anyway, as if he senses me. His gaze meets mine, and the warmth in his eyes nearly burns through me.
“How are you feeling?” he asks gently, voice quiet but firm.
I blink fast, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Better,” I manage. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.”
“You needed it,” he replies simply.
Maksim notices me then. “Mama!” he cries, scrambling up and launching himself at me.
I drop to my knees, arms open, and catch him against my chest. I press my face to his hair and breathe him in. “Hi, baby. Did you have fun?”
“We played army,” he says proudly. “Zasha says I’m a natural.”
I glance up at Zasha, and the smile he gives me is small but real. “He’s a quick study.”
As I hold Maksim in my arms, I remember the other reason why I came looking for Zasha.
“Is it okay if I go and visit with my parents?”
He looks at me, surprised that I have to ask. “Of course, whenever you are ready.”
And then, as if a light bulb just went off in his head, he tells me that my father has been moved to their own hospital, where their doctor will oversee his treatment, and everything that concerns his transplant is being appropriately handled. Including my mother getting tested again.
Tears well up in my eyes. “Thank you.”
He looks uncomfortable for a second, then changes the subject.
He obviously isn’t used to appreciation.
“Are you hungry?” He asks. Waving off my thanks.
I nod. I didn’t even realize how empty my stomach was until he said it.
“I ordered pizza,” he says with a little smirk. “Maksim’s choice.”
My heart twists again.
Pizza. Filled with warmth and laughter. We aren’t running. We aren’t bleeding. We are here.
And I don’t know what we are now—but for the first time in a long time, I think I want to find out.
I give Maksim one more kiss on the forehead before standing. “Come on, soldier,” I say, ruffling his curls. “Let’s clean up before dinner.”
He marches beside me down the hall like a pint-sized general, and I catch Zasha watching us as we disappear around the corner. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but it lingers on me a little longer than I expect. When our eyes meet again, he looks away first.
I strip off my robe and step under the warm stream of water. It stings a little where bruises lace across my ribs and back, but it’s a clean pain. A healing kind. The scent of the soap—cedarwood and spice—smells like him, and I close my eyes for a moment just to breathe it in.