Chapter Twenty-Seven-Andrea
It’s Friday, and I am leaving work early today.
I stop to get Callie on my way to my parents’ home out on the Long Island Sound, and she’s chatting happily next to me about all her amazing school adventures.
Well, that lasts about fifteen minutes before she nods off, then I’m sitting back and scrolling through my digital camera memory, looking at all the pictures I’ve been taking since Remy’s been gone.
He was supposed to come back tonight, but he messaged me he’d be another day max.
Apparently, the prince he’s setting up training for has taken a liking to my man.
Can’t say as I blame him.
It’s been only a week, but I feel like I’ve gained twenty pounds since I’ve seen him. In reality, it’s three.
But still.
The babies are growing so fast, and my stomach is just super stretched.
I’m changing. Everything is.
And it’s all happening so damn fast.
But there’s another change coming, one I chose.
I told the head of my department I needed to start finding a replacement for my position.
Not because of maternity leave—though that’s part of it—but because I want to leave. For good.
I haven’t told my parents. Or my cousins. Or even Remy yet. But I have this gut feeling he’ll approve. Maybe he’ll even smile that rare, devastating smile that says he’s proud of me.
God, I hope so.
The rest of them? They’ll probably chalk it up to another “crisis of creativity.” That’s what Uncle Marat used to call it when one of us cousins got swept up in a hobby.
He never said it meanly, just matter-of-fact. Like it was inevitable for Volkov kids to fling themselves at shiny distractions.
Micky with her rollerblades.
Cora’s skydiving phase.
Clementine’s horses.
Me? I’ve tried everything from painting to pottery to yoga retreats in Costa Rica. None of it stuck.
But this? This isn’t a phase.
I’ve been taking pictures for as long as I can remember. When words failed me, when my sisters or my missing my brother when he was off fighting wars was just too much, or when I couldn’t find the courage to say what I really felt—I picked up my camera. Framed the world in glass.
The lens speaks when I can’t.
And somehow, the truth comes out sharper. More focused.
I sold a few prints last year, nothing fancy, just skyline shots of New York from across the Hudson in Edgewater.
They weren’t groundbreaking, but people liked them. Enough to buy them. And when I saw my photos hanging on a gallery wall, my heart nearly burst.
Of course, I used a pseudonym. I didn’t want the Volkov name to open doors for me. I wanted it to be mine.
And then last week, the gallery owner emailed me—asking if I’d been working on anything new.
I panicked. Then I remembered the photos I took after Leanna’s wedding. That night after I spent it with Remy, restless and raw, I couldn’t sleep.
My body was buzzing, my heart in chaos, so I grabbed my camera and one of the Jeeps. I drove until the wilderness met the sea, just me, the waves, and the stars.
And I shot.
For hours.
Rocks jagged like teeth against the horizon.
The ocean mist caught in dawn light.
Even my reflection, bent and blurred in a tide pool, like the woman in it was a stranger.
I sent them over.
And now?
He wants them.
The gallery wants me.
I should be shouting it from rooftops, telling my family, calling my sisters. But instead, I’m sitting on it. Holding it close.
Because the first person I want to tell is Remy.
My husband.
And that alone scares the hell out of me.
We get to the house, and just as I knew she would, Callie wakes up the second the car slows in the driveway.
She rubs her eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and clutches my hand as we walk up the stone steps.
My parents are already waiting for us in the living room—Mom perched on the edge of the sofa like she’s about to launch herself forward, Dad in his usual armchair, broad and commanding, but with that soft glint in his eye reserved for family.
Callie hesitates, pressing against my leg, her little fingers tightening around mine.
Shy. Unsure.
“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I whisper, smoothing her hair.
But my parents? They don’t push.
They’ve never needed to. They radiate love, and within a few minutes, Callie peeks up at them, her lips twitching like she wants to smile.
“I thought maybe you’d like to play tea party? Would that be okay?” Mom asks gently, her voice warm enough to melt ice.
Callie blinks, then nods.
And when she does, I see it—the moment the shyness falls away and my little angel finds her courage.
She steps forward, her tiny shoes padding across the floor, and Mom gestures proudly toward the surprise waiting in the corner.
A miniature play cottage. Painted pink and blue, complete with a front door that actually opens, and a little kitchen inside stocked with pots, pans, and fake food.
Of course.
My parents. Always going over the top.
Callie gasps softly and bolts forward. In an instant, she’s inside, already taking charge like the tiny queen she is.
“Tea!” she declares.
Mom and Dad chuckle as she sets about pouring invisible cups for each of us with the utmost seriousness, her little brows furrowed in concentration.
And when she finishes serving the grown-ups, she lines up the half a dozen brand-new stuffed animals my parents clearly bought for her—and makes sure they get their tea, too.
My throat tightens at the sight.
God. She looks so at home here.
We chat about nothing for a little while. And eventually, Dad goes off to the kitchen to fetch some real food for Callie who asked for a snack a few minutes ago.
“Thanks, Mom,” I tell her, even though I know I don’t have to.
“You’re my daughter, Andrea,” Mom says, tone sharp but her eyes softer. “And I am so proud of you. You were made to be this little girl’s mother.”
“Do you think so? I mean, it’s kind of all at once, don’t you think?” I whisper, hands on my belly, tears in my eyes even as I watch Callie playing happily.
Dad comes back with some cut up fruit, and a Swiss cheese and tomato sandwich cut into triangles with no crusts.
Like he used to make for me.
My stomach rumbles, and he smirks and pulls another sandwich out of nowhere and hands it to me.
“Thanks.”
I start eating.
“You know, sweetheart,” Mom continues, “We’re both so happy about your pregnancy. About Callie. And your marriage. We just don’t want it brushed under the rug like it’s a dirty secret.”
Here it is. The talk about the wedding announcement I’ve been avoiding.
“Ellie, my love,” Dad hedges, his voice deep and measured, his hand curling around hers on the table like it always does.
He looks at her with that mix of devotion and protectiveness that Dad only musters for my mother—the absolute love of his life.
“Andrea might not want a party.”
“Why do you say that?”