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When I come out, towel-drying my hair, Maksim’s waiting for me with his arms full of pajamas and a bath towel that’s half-dragged along the floor. “Zasha said I should get ready too,” he says proudly.
How many things have Zasha already bought for Maksim in one day?
I kneel and take the bundle from him, brushing his hair back. “Good idea. I’ll run your bath.”
Ten minutes later, he’s in the tub, splashing softly while I sit on the edge, watching the water rise and fall around his small frame.
He looks up suddenly. “Mama? Is this part of our adventure?”
The question feels like someone dropped a stone in my chest. It seems loke ages ago that I made that statement to him.
“Yes.”
He seems satisfied with that. He goes back to floating a rubber duck—another thing Zasha must have ordered just for him.
Once he’s clean and dressed, we return to the living room where the pizza boxes are open on the table. The scent is mouthwatering—cheesy, hot, familiar. Maksim rushes over and grabs a slice like he’s never eaten before.
Zasha lifts a brow at me. “You okay to eat?”
I nod and sink onto the couch beside him.
He hands me a plate, and for a while, it’s quiet—just the three of us eating in peace. Maksim talks with his mouth full, showing Zasha his drawing from earlier. Zasha listens patiently, never once interrupting, always responding like the boy’s words are the most important thing in the world.
Something warm and unspoken forms in my throat.
Later, after brushing my teeth, reading bedtime stories, and humming a lullaby under my breath, I tuck Maksim under the covers in the room I once occupied in this house.
He’s out within minutes.
I stay a little longer, watching him breathe, needing to convince myself this moment is real. When I finally turn to leave, I find Zasha leaning against the doorframe. His arms are folded, his eyes unreadable.
The moment I step out and close Maksim’s door, I know it’s time.
“We need to talk,” he says, his voice low.
I brace myself as he leads me toward the kitchen, where the dim under-cabinet lights cast gold shadows across the marble counters.
This is the part I’ve been dreading, the part where I have to confront the past.
Zasha doesn't speak right away. He pours two glasses of water, slides one toward me, then leans against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed. I wrap my fingers around the glass, mostly for something to do. My throat is already dry, but water won't fix what's sitting heavy in the air between us.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks… careful.
Measured in a way I’ve never seen before. His knuckles are tight around his glass, but his eyes stay locked on me.
Just waiting.
I wrap my fingers around the glass, feeling the chill soak into my skin. “You want to ask me about my son,” I say quietly.
He nods once. “I do.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. There is no need to drag this out. “Maksim is yours.”
A flicker passes over his face—something close to pain—but it fades into something deeper. Something unspoken and shaking.
“I knew it,” he breathes. “I saw it the second I looked at him, but I... I needed to hear it.”
I look away because I do not know how to handle the hurt in his eyes.