Page 14 of Mafia and Scars

“She brought it up first,” he says, like that somehow makes it better. “She worries about how you’re letting yourself go.” He doesn’t even bother to lower his voice, not caring who hears. “She says it’s not good for a woman to stop caring about how she looks or let herself get fat like you have.”

My chest caves in at the word ‘fat.’ His mother is in the kitchen right now, no doubt snooping through our drawers and cabinets. He’s been discussing me like I’m some annoying flaw or a nuisance in his life, not the mother of his child. I can almost hear his mother’s voice—harsh, judgmental, and dripping with hostilitytoward me.

“Geliy,” I say, trying to keep my voice quiet and steady. “You’re being cruel.”

He sighs, like I’m the unreasonable one. “You take everything so personally. I’m just saying what everyone else can see.”

I nod, even though my vision blurs. My hands tremble as I step away toward the table, pretending to focus on rearranging the plates of food.

Behind me, his footsteps retreat down the hall.

I stay facing away from everyone. And when I hear that he’s gone into the kitchen, I finally let my shoulders fall, pressing a hand over my stomach, over the soft curve he’s ashamed of. The same curve that carried our child.

The shame burns so deep I can feel it in my bones.

And worse—part of me starts believing he might be right…

That conversation was bad enough, but then I remember the one I had with his mother…

Olga’s eyes sweep over me like a scanner, up and down, pausing too long on my stomach.

I already know what’s coming. The air in the kitchen thickens before she even opens her mouth.

“You still haven’t lost the baby weight,” she huffs, her tone as sharp as a deadly knife. “It’s been ten weeks. Long enough, don’t you think?”

My cheeks burn. I grip my mug tighter, fingers trembling slightly. “I’ve been busy with the baby,” I manage. “And work. I?—”

She waves a manicured hand, cutting me off. “Excuses! When I had Geliy, I was back in shape within two weeks. I made time. I made an effort. I cared enough about my husband to act.”

The shame crawls up my throat, hot and choking. I glance toward the hallway, praying Geliy will walk in and say something, anything, but he’s not here to rescue me. It’s just me and her.

“I think I look fine,” I try to say in a strong voice, though my voice wobbles. “I mean, I’m healthy. The doctor said?—”

Olga’s top lip curls. “Healthy,” she scoffs, as if it’s a word that offends her. “But not polished. And not good enough for my son. A man like Geliydeserves a wife who takes pride in herself. Who represents the family well. And who isn’t repulsive and disgusting to look at.”

The words hit harder than I expect. I know it’s probably the post-pregnancy hormones making me extra-sensitive, but my throat tightens, and I stare at the tiled floor so she won’t see the tears gathering in my eyes.

She leans forward slightly, her cloying perfume seeming to suffocate me. “I told him as much, you know. That he could have done better. Someone from a proper family. Someone who knows how to maintain herself. Instead of an orphan and a nobody.”

The humiliation burns deeper now. Not just because she said it. But because he listened. He discussed me with her. My body. My weight. My flaws. He’s supposed to be on my side, isn’t he? He’s supposed to support me and back me up, not cut me down and undermine me. Isn’t that what a husband—a partner—is supposed to do?

Olga’s cruel smirk grows. “Sometimes, a little truth is necessary for improvement.”

As she turns away, I press my hand over my stomach, as if I can hide it.

And the shame settles like a solid brick inside me…heavy, familiar, and impossible to breathe around…

Trying to stop the thoughts, I gaze out of the window. We’re 35,000 or so feet above ground, and the world looks so small. Even the problems that press down on my shoulders seem less this far up. But that’ll change the moment we land.

The moment we touch down in Russia, it’ll be different. It’ll be constant work, pressure, and expectations.And ghosts of the past lurking around every corner.

Rubbing at my ribs, I wince, trying to dismiss the phantom pain that I feel there. It’s not there anymore. It’s been years. But the closer we draw to Moscow, the more these feelings keep bubbling up.

My little girl, Sofia, murmurs in her sleep, snuggling closer to me, her breathing soft and rhythmic. My eyes drift to the email I printed out. It’s the first of what I’m sure will be many such opportunities now that I’m no longer coaching figure skating at the university inVegas. That’s how I’m trying to look at being let go from my job. Because I’m desperately trying not to think about how I’ve lost the only stability we ever really had.

This coaching job at a Moscow academy is short.I can handle it.I’m doing this for us. For Sofia and Leon. For my family. It’s necessary. Even if my stomach churns with anxiety and uncertainty. The money will make it worth it. I hope.

I never thought I’d take a job like this back in Russia, but it’s a necessary evil. Unwanted memories swarm back into my mind… The smell of the ice rink. The darkness of the arena. The way the cold air filled my lungs.