CHAPTER 50
ILAY
THREE YEARS LATER
“I acknowledge my anger without letting it control me.
" They repeat it like sheep. "I acknowledge my anger without letting it control me.
" I sit in the back row with my legs spread and my arms folded across my chest. Ruslan sits beside me on the left, Semyon on the right.
Two more of my men wait by the door. The others keep glancing at us.
They've been doing it since we walked in twenty minutes ago, shooting nervous little looks like they can't tell if we're here for therapy or to collect a debt.
The session leader stands at the front with her clipboard pressed to her chest. She's got graying hair pulled into a tight bun and wire-rimmed glasses that keep slipping down her nose.
"Thank you, everyone," she says softly. "Now, who would like to share their progress from this week?
" A hand goes up in the front row. The man attached to it is middle-aged with a receding hairline and a cardigan drooping off his shoulders like it was made for someone twice his size.
"Hi, I'm Robert." "Hi, Robert," everyone chants back.
Everyone except me. "So, um, I've been working on what we talked about last week," Robert continues, fidgeting with his hands, twisting his fingers together.
"My neighbor parked in my spot again. And normally, I would've gone over there and slashed his tires.
Or at least banged on his door and screamed at him until he moved.
But this time, I took a deep breath. I counted to ten.
And then I wrote him a polite note explaining how his actions made me feel. "
The therapist nods with an encouraging smile. "That's wonderful progress, Robert. And how did that make you feel afterward?" "Good. Really good. I felt in control of myself for the first time in a long time."
"Excellent. That's exactly the kind of growth we're looking for.
Thank you for sharing." Robert settles back in his chair with a proud little smile, like he's done something meaningful.
I want to point out that slashing the tires would've solved the problem permanently, but I keep my mouth shut.
"Who else would like to share?" she asks, looking around.
A hand goes up. The man it belongs to is massive, stuffed into a tracksuit, with a neck like a tree trunk and hands the size of dinner plates.
He looks like he could crush a skull without breaking a sweat.
"Hi, I'm Grigori." "Hi, Grigori." "So my wife burned dinner again this week. It’s the third time it happened. I know it's not supposed to be a big deal, but it made me furious. I work all day, I come home dead tired, and I can't even get a decent meal on the table."
"And what did you do?" She tilts her head, waiting.
"I took a deep breath. Told her it was okay.
And then I ordered pizza." The therapist smiles.
"Wonderful. You stepped away from the emotional reaction and found a practical solution.
That's excellent progress." can't believe I'm sitting here listening to a man the size of a refrigerator talk about burned dinner and pizza like it's some kind of breakthrough.
Ruslan raises his hand. I turn to stare at him, certain I'm hallucinating, but no.
His hand is up. He won't look at me. "'Yes, please,' the therapist says, gesturing for him to speak.
Ruslan clears his throat. 'Hi, I'm Ruslan. ' 'Hi, Ruslan,' the group responds."
"He shifts in his seat. 'So, I have been having some issues at work.
My boss asks me to do things. Things I don't always agree with.
And I can't say no. I can't confront him about it.
So I carry this anger around with me all the time.
It builds up and I don't know what to do with it.” The therapist nods with sympathy.
"That sounds very difficult. Feeling powerless at work can be a major source of frustration.
What kind of things does your boss ask you to do?
" Ruslan hesitates. "Things that go against my personal values.
" "Can you give us an example?" "I'd rather not. "
"That's perfectly fine. The important thing is that you're recognizing the source of your anger.
" The therapist leans forward slightly. "So what have you been doing to cope with these feelings?
" Ruslan straightens up. "I started writing in a journal.
Every time my boss makes me do something that upsets me, I write down how I feel instead of acting on it.
" I would pay a significant amount of money to read that journal.
The therapist lights up. "That's excellent, Ruslan.
Journaling is a powerful tool for processing emotions.
It lets you express your feelings safely without causing harm.
Have you noticed any difference since you started? "
"Yes. I feel less like I'm going to explode all the time.
" "Wonderful. That's real progress. Thank you for sharing.
" Ruslan nods. Her gaze moves around the room and stops on me.
"Mr. Volkov." She uses the name I gave when I enrolled.
"You've been quiet during our last few sessions.
Would you like to share today?" I meet her eyes.
She holds my gaze with that patient, unshakable expression all therapists seem to share. "No."
"I understand that sharing can be difficult. But participation is an important part of growth. Even something small can help."
"I have nothing to share."
"Nothing this week that triggered your anger?
" Radimir Miroslav happened. Three years of being married to his daughter and the man still treats me like I'm a stray dog Iris dragged home.
He smiles at me with all his teeth and none of his eyes.
He asks about my business in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer and finds it beneath him.
He sits at the head of his table in his pristine dining room and watches me with the patience of a man waiting for a problem to solve itself.
But the worst part is what he does with Anya.
My daughter. My blood. The only pure, untainted thing I have ever created.
He buys her love right out from under me.
Three years of marriage, a grandchild, another baby on the way, and he still acts like I'm temporary.
Every gift I give Anya, he tops. Every moment I have with her, he steals.
I bought her a playhouse. He bought her a custom dollhouse with working lights.
I got her a puppy. He got her a kitten, a rabbit, and a bird because why have one pet when you can have a zoo.
I took her to the circus. He rented an entire amusement park.
Last week I bought her a pony. She was so happy she cried.
I was her hero. The best papa in the whole world.
Then Sunday arrived. Dinner at Dedushka's house.
And there, displayed in the living room like a monument to everything he has, is a custom-built dollhouse the size of a car.
Anya screamed so loud I thought she was hurt.
Then she ran to him. Hugged him. Kissed him.
Told him he was the best dedushka in the universe.
She didn't look at me once for the next two hours.
Iris tried to make me feel better. "She's three. She doesn't know what she's doing."
"She knows exactly what she's doing. She's her mother's daughter.
" Iris smacked my arm. But she was smiling.
Because she knows I'm right. They're both mercenaries.
Beautiful and ruthless, going where the spoils are, leaving the rest of us to fight over scraps of their attention.
I love them anyway, even though they're emotionally bankrupting me.
My fist clenches and my sleeve rides up, exposing my wrist. The platinum wedding band catches the light first. Then the bracelet just above it.
Pink and purple plastic beads on fraying elastic with a tiny silver A dangling from it.
Anya made it for me Monday morning. She crawled into our bed, wedged herself between Iris and me, shoved the bracelet in my face until I opened my eyes, and announced very seriously, "I made this for you, Papa. Because you were grumpy at Dedushka's house and Mama said I have to be nicer to you."
"You don't have to be nicer to me." "I know.
" She shrugged. "But I want to. Because I love you.
" Then her face went serious. "I love Dedushka too.
But I love you different. You're my papa.
" I put the bracelet on that morning. Haven't taken it off since.
Right now, someone is staring at it. I don't bother checking who.
I fix my sleeve, meet the therapist's eyes.
"It was a quiet week." The therapist writes something on her clipboard.
"Alright. Perhaps next time." She moves on to the final part of the session, breathing exercises, instructing everyone to close their eyes and breathe in for four counts, hold for four counts, breathe out for four counts.
My eyes stay open. I don't breathe with them.
But Ruslan is doing the exercise like his life depends on it, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in perfect sync with the therapist's count.
Semyon too. I'm giving them both hell for this later.
After a few minutes, the therapist calls time.
"Very good, everyone. Now, before we close, let's do our final affirmation together.
Repeat after me: I can choose peace over violence.
" The room echoes with the words. "I can choose peace over violence. "