CHAPTER 40
IRIS
Germany a month later.
I say goodbye to Maria at the office entrance, pulling my coat tighter against the evening cold while she fumbles with her keys, muttering something in German about needing to get the lock fixed.
"See you tomorrow, Iris," she says with a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"See you tomorrow," I reply, managing a smile even though exhaustion sits heavy in my bones from eight hours of translating dense legal contracts.
The walk to my car takes less than two minutes, the small parking lot behind Schneider Translation Services nearly empty now that everyone else has already left for the day.
I unlock my modest sedan, slide into the driver's seat, turn the key in the ignition, pull out onto the street without looking back at the building that has become my temporary refuge.
The drive to my apartment takes twenty minutes through Solingen's quiet streets, the city settling into its evening rhythm with people heading home from work, couples walking hand in hand toward restaurants, everything so normal it feels foreign to me now.
I park in my usual spot in the underground garage beneath my apartment building, grab my bag from the passenger seat, make my way to the elevator that will take me up to the third floor where I've been living in careful isolation.
My apartment is small but decent, one bedroom with a living area that connects to a kitchen barely big enough for one person to move around comfortably, but it's clean, safe, most importantly it's far away from Russia, from him.
I unlock the door and step inside already thinking about the frozen meal I'll heat up for dinner, the hot shower I'll take, the bed I'll crawl into early.
Then I see it.
Sitting on my kitchen table is a box, sleek black packaging with a silk ribbon tied around it.
I freeze in the doorway, my keys still dangling from my fingers, my heart suddenly pounding.
No one has a key to my apartment except the building manager.
No one knows my exact address except my family who swore they wouldn't tell anyone where I was.
I close the door behind me slowly, turn the deadbolt with hands that have started shaking, walk toward the table while my eyes stay fixed on the box.
There's a card attached to the ribbon, cream colored paper, with my name written on the front in handwriting I would recognize anywhere.
I pick it up with trembling fingers, open it, and read the words inside.
"I know you already have a car, but since you loved the one you left behind in Russia, I decided you should have the upgraded model here.
The keys are in the box. I had it delivered to your building's garage this morning.
Spot 3B, right next to where you've been parking that sedan.
Consider it a gift. I'm always thinking of you, angel. "
I drop the card, step back from the table, and try to steady my breathing.
He knows where I live. He knows where I park.
He had access to my apartment. I open the box with shaking hands, find car keys inside, attached to a keychain with a small silver charm in the shape of an angel.
Then I see it. At the bottom of the box, beneath the keys, is an envelope.
I pick it up, tear it open, and pull out the thick paper folded carefully.
***
LETTER 1
I unfold it, with shaking hands and read.
"My angel, I hope this letter finds you well.
I wanted you to know that I've started therapy, just like you wanted.
Anger management classes too. I sit in a room with other men twice a week and we talk about our feelings.
It's strange, but I'm doing it. For you.
For us. I know where you are. Before you panic, I'm not coming to get you.
I promised myself I'd give you space, and I meant it.
You needed to leave, and I'm learning to accept that.
My therapist says acceptance is the first step toward growth.
I've also held off on Killing your family.
I know you love them, and I'm trying to respect that.
I figured you'd want your father to walk you down the aisle someday, so I'm being considerate.
See? I'm being a good boy. Take all the time you need.
Months. Years. However long it takes for you to feel safe again.
I can wait. I've waited my whole life for you, what's a little longer?
I miss you every second of every day, but I understand.
You needed to run, and I needed to become someone worth coming back to.
I'm working on that. I love you, Iris. Always have, always will.
With all my love, your husband."
I set the letter down on the table, with shaking hands, staring at it like it might come to life.
He found me in less than two months. He's been watching me this entire time.
I fold the letter, and put it in a drawer in my kitchen, I tell myself I should throw it away, But I don't. I don’t have the heart
***
FOUR WEEKS LATER - LETTER 2
I come home from work on a Tuesday evening, to find another envelope slipped under my door.
I pick it up with trembling fingers, and pull out the paper inside. Reading it.
My heart
"Therapy was interesting this week. My therapist asked me to do breathing exercises.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, while thinking about what triggers my anger.
I sat there breathing like an idiot for twenty minutes.
Then she asked me to talk about my feelings.
About you. About us. About why I can't let you go.
I told her everything. How you're the only person who's ever made me feel human.
How every day without you feels like suffocating.
How I see you in everything I do, every decision I make, every breath I take.
She asked if I thought that was healthy.
I told her I didn't care. Also my love, I've been working on our house. I repainted the master bedroom to your taste, adding an extra closet, I’ve bought new Egyptian cotton sheets, with a 1200 thread count.
I Only the best for the woman who stole my heart.
I'm making everything perfect for when you come home.
I also bought baby clothes. I couldn't help myself honey.
I was walking past a store last week and I saw the tiniest onesies with elephants on them.
I just had to buy them. I don't know yet if we'll have a boy or a girl first, but anyone we have first, I’ll love them regardless.
When are you coming back? It's been a month now.
I'm being patient, like I promised, but I miss you so much it physically hurts.
How much longer do I have to wait? I love you. I need you. Always yours, Ilay."
I fold the letter with emotions beginning to well up in my eyes, and add it to the drawer with the first one.
***
FOUR WEEKS LATER - LETTER 3
I come home from work on a Friday evening, find the third envelope under my door, somehow this particular later feels heavier.
I pick it up, and open it standing in my hallway, then I manoeuvre my way inside my house.
My sweetheart.
Guess what? I killed my therapist today.
She had the audacity to suggest I should "accept your decision" and "move on.
" Move on from you? As if you're some phase I'm going through.
As if you're replaceable. I put a bullet in her head right there in her office.
All those degrees on her wall didn't make her any smarter.
No one tells me to give up on you. No one.
You've only been gone two months. Two months.
And already people think I should forget you?
Move on? Find someone else? There is no one else. There will never be anyone else.