"Family is complicated, child. People we love can disappoint us, hurt us, even abandon us. But that doesn't erase what they once were to us."
"Doesn't it?" I look up at him, and I know my eyes are bright with unshed tears. "How do I separate the brother who held me when I cried from the man who sold me out? How do I mourn someone who never really existed?"
The priest considers this, his fingers moving over his prayer book. "When someone we love dies, we grieve not just who they were, but who we thought they were. The loss of our image of them can be as painful as the loss of their presence."
I want to say he's wrong, that the deception is worse than knowing Damir is no longer breathing, but it's not. The priest is right. The hollow gut-wrenching feeling is just as raw no matter how I try to think about it.
I double over, pressing my face to my hands. The grief that I've been holding back breaks free, and I sob into my palms—ugly, wrenching sounds that echo off the stone walls. I cry for the brother I thought I had, for the family I thought we were, for the little girl who believed that love was enough to keep people honest.
Father Dmitri doesn't move from his seat, doesn't try to comfort me with empty platitudes. He simply sits with me in my grief like a steady anchor in the storm of my emotions.
When the tears finally subside, I lift my head and find him watching me with gentle eyes. "I don't know how to let him go," I whisper.
"Perhaps you don't have to. Not completely." He opens his prayer book, turning to a page marked with a faded ribbon. "We can honor the good that someone brought into our lives while acknowledging the pain they caused. We can love the memory of who they were to us while accepting that they chose a different path."
"I'm pregnant," I say suddenly, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I'm carrying a child, and I don't know how to raise them in a world where family can be a weapon."
Father Doroshev's expression softens further with recognition. Of course he knows Maksim. Of course he understands who I am and why I'm here. This place is probably owned by the Vetrov family. I'm so foolish. "Children are born into imperfect families, child. Always. But they also carry the capacity for love, for forgiveness, for choosing better paths than those who came before them."
I place my hand over my stomach, feeling the slight curve there. "I want to be better than he was. Better than my mother was. I want to build something real."
"Then you will." He closes the prayer book and stands, moving to the altar. "Would you like me to pray with you? Foryour child, for your future, for the strength to forgive what needs forgiving?"
I nod, unable to speak. He gestures for me to join him, and I rise on unsteady legs. At the altar, he places his hands over mine, and I feel the warmth of his palms against my cold skin.
"Lord, we bring before you a soul in pain, a woman who has lost much and fears losing more. Grant her the strength to carry her grief without being crushed by it. Help her to see that love—true love—can exist even in the darkest places, and that the family she creates can be stronger than the one she lost."
His voice washes over me, and I close my eyes, letting the words settle in my chest. When he finishes, he makes the sign of the cross over me, and I feel something shift inside me—not healing, really, but the beginning of acceptance.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Go in peace, child. And remember—you are not alone in this world. You have found someone who values you, who protects you. That is not nothing."
I leave the chapel as the sun's last rays finally vanish over Moscow, the letter still in my hand but feeling lighter somehow. The estate is quiet as I make my way back to the main house, my footsteps muffled by the thick carpets in the hallway as I climb the stairs to our bedroom.
The room is empty when I enter, but I can smell Maksim's cologne lingering in the air. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the letter one last time before folding it carefully and placing it on the nightstand. I won't ask him about Damir. I won't demand details about what he did or how it ended. That knowledge would only poison what we're trying to build.
I strip off my clothes and slip into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. The sheets smell like him—clean and masculine and safe. I close my eyes and let myself think about my father, about the way he used to read to me before bed, about the sound ofhis laughter echoing through our small apartment. I think about my mother, about the way she used to braid my hair and sing old folk songs while she cooked. I think about Damir, about the brother who taught me to count money and told me stories about better days coming.
They're all gone now, in one way or another. But I'm still here. I'm still breathing, still fighting, still hoping. And for the first time in years, I have someone who won't let me face the darkness alone.
When Maksim's footsteps sound in the hallway, I don't pretend to be asleep. I turn toward the door, watching as he enters the room with careful, quiet movements. He stops when he sees me looking at him, and something passes between us—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of the choice I've made.
"How was your day?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
"Difficult," I say honestly. "But I'm here."
He nods, and I see the relief in his hazel eyes. He begins to undress, and I watch him move through his evening routine with the kind of steady reliability that I've come to depend on. When he slides into bed beside me, I turn toward him, pressing my face against his chest.
"I want to try," I whisper against his skin. "I want to build something real with you."
His arms come around me. "We will," he says, and I believe him.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, held safe in the arms of the man who has become my anchor in a world of shifting loyalties and broken promises. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new fears, new choices. But tonight, I am home.
32
MAKSIM
