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“She’s so beautiful,” Mama whispers, her fingers pressing against the window glass like a child longing for something in a shop display. “My little girl…”

I exit first, circling around to open her door. She takes my offered hand, her grip surprisingly strong despite her frail appearance. The flight from Russia was exhausting— endless hours of tension and paperwork, bribes and threats ensuring our unhindered departure from a country that doesn’t easily release its prisoners.

My mother pauses as she steps from the car, taking in the sprawling estate before her. Blackwood Manor must seemimpossibly grand after a lifetime in a prison cell— the manicured gardens, the symmetrical wings stretching like protective arms, the gleaming windows reflecting the late afternoon sun.

“This is where you live?” she asks, voice barely audible.

“Da, Mamushka.It’s safe here.” I place my hand gently on her lower back, guiding her forward. “Diana’s waiting.”

We’ve taken only three steps when Diana breaks. With a sound that’s half sob, half her childhood name for our mother—“Mamachka!”—she rushes down the remaining steps. My mother’s legs seem to give way, and I steady her as emotion overwhelms her physical strength.

“My beautiful daughter,” Mama cries, arms outstretched. “My beautiful, beautiful girl.”

They collide in an embrace so fierce I step back, giving them space for this moment that belongs only to them. Diana— my composed, controlled sister who rarely shows emotion— weeps openly, her face buried in our mother’s neck. Our mother’s hands move constantly, touching Diana’s hair, her face, her shoulders, as if confirming her daughter’s solidity after two decades of separation.

“Let me look at you,” Mama says, pulling back to cup Diana’s face between her palms. “Oh, mydochen’ka. You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

Diana laughs through her tears. “That’s what you always said.”

“Because it’s true.” Mama brushes a strand of hair from Diana’s forehead with the same gentle gesture I remember from childhood— the one that always came before a kiss on the temple, a whispered word of encouragement.

I watch them, these two women who share the same delicate bone structure, the same graceful hands, the same resilience that allowed them to survive what would have broken others. Something tightens in my chest, and I’m surprised to find my own eyes watering. I blink hard.

Not now.

Keep it together, mudak.

All this time, we’ve believed her dead, fought off nightmares and rage and emptiness. And now she stands before us, older but unmistakably our mother.

“Is Vasya here too?” Mama asks, looking around hopefully.

“He’s flying in from St. Petersburg this week,” Diana answers, still holding Mama’s hands as if afraid she might disappear again. “He couldn’t believe it when Aleksei called. None of us could.”

My mother turns to me, her smile radiant despite the tears streaming down her face. “My children. All my children together again.”

The joy in her expression makes what comes next even more difficult. I hesitate, reluctant to shatter this perfect moment with the reality waiting inside. But she needs to know before we enter the house. Before she potentially encountershim.

“Mama,” I say carefully, “there’s something else you need to know.”

Her smile falters, eyes searching my face. She’s always been perceptive— able to read my expressions when others saw only a blank mask. Even after all the years, that hasn’t changed.

“What is it, Lyosha?”

Diana shoots me a warning glance, but there’s no gentle way to deliver this news.

“Father is here. In the manor,” I say simply.

The silence that follows is absolute. Mother’s face drains of color so rapidly that I step forward, concerned she might faint. Her fingers dig into Diana’s arm with sudden desperation.

“Rodion?” The whisper contains two decades of dread.

“He’s dying,” I continue, watching her closely. “He came here seeking… I don’t know. Forgiveness, perhaps. He’s the one who told me you were alive. That you were in Vostok.”

Mother’s legs give way completely. Diana and I catch her between us, guiding her to a nearby bench. Her breathing has become erratic, her hands trembling violently.

“No,” she gasps, “I can’t… I’m not ready…”

“You don’t have to see him,” Diana says quickly, kneeling before her. “Not ever, if you don’t want to.”