Page 7 of Unbroken

It’s me, Mom.

Mariah’s gone.

Chapter 3

VADKA

Grief is strange.I swear to god, it rots you from the inside, so you still carry the shape of who you were, but inside, you’re just… hollow.

At least that’s how it feels.

The house is too quiet, even when Luka’s awake and pushing his trucks into walls, complete with sound effects.

I sit in the living room, slouched in my armchair. This was one of my favorite new purchases when I first got a job with the Kopolovs—a large, well-constructed, luxury leather armchair. My family never could’ve afforded anything nice like this when I was a kid, and it was the first thing my mother pointed out when she came here, her nose in the air, with a sniff. “Nice chair.”

It’s a good chair. Sturdy. Broken in just enough to feel like mine. I’ve moved it from place to place every time we packed up and started over.

I used to sit here with my laptop, doing work while Mariah lingered nearby.

We had a running joke about my chair. She knew damn well it was my space, which is why she’d plant herself in it—cross-legged, staring at me with that mock-defiant glint in her eyes if I worked too late and she missed me.

A challenge. A dare.

This is the chair where I’d nurse my drinks after the latest news from Rafail and where I rocked my newborn son to sleep so Mariah could get some rest when I could cajole her into giving him up for a little while.

I have a lot of memories in this chair.

But tonight, I can barely remember one.

I stare at the empty glass I left last night on the little table between my chair and the couch. It’s almost cliché. Wife dies. Drown grief and sorrow in liquor. Become dead to the world.

I’m a fucking cliché.

But there’s a reason. Itdoesfeel better when everything’s numb for a little while. It helps me ignore every single fucking reminder of my wife.

Some nights, I swear I can still hear her putzing around the kitchen, banging pots and pans and singing off-key.

But we’re alone here, Luka and me.

It’s why I hired a damn nanny. I had to do something.

My failures tighten around my chest.

I’m failing as a father.

Failing as a man.

Failing as the backbone of the family.

I failed my wife.

I had just closed my eyes when the doorbell rings. I glance at the time on my phone. The nanny isn’t due for another hour. I like punctual, and a little bit early is okay, but this feels borderline intrusive. Unwelcome.

I push myself to my feet and try to school the inevitable scowl on my face. I can’t have the new hire running this early. If my reputation precedes me, I’ll have to at least pretend to be friendly.

But the second I crack open the door, I realize I’ve made a mistake. It’s not the new nanny. It’sRuthie.

And she lookspissed.