Epilogue - Hannah
The warm June sun bathes the rows of chairs in golden light as I stand at the edge of the stage, my graduation cap slightly askew and my nerves buzzing beneath my skin. The hum of the crowd fills the air, a mixture of laughter, cheers, and the occasional cry from a restless toddler. Somewhere in that crowd sits Makar, an imposing figure among the happy families, his ever-serious expression softened just slightly by pride.
I press a hand to my belly, the gentle curve of my second pregnancy a constant reminder of how far I’ve come. The baby stirs faintly, as if in agreement, and I smile, adjusting the cap on my head before stepping forward.
The dean reads out my name, her voice carrying over the crowd. “Hannah Sharov, Bachelor of Arts.”
The applause washes over me like a wave as I walk across the stage, my gown swishing around my ankles. My heart swells, the magnitude of this moment hitting me all at once. For years, this had felt like an impossible dream—a goal buried beneath fear, confinement, and survival.
Yet, here I am, standing in the light of something I built for myself, with the people I love waiting for me just beyond the edge of the stage.
As I shake hands with the dean and accept my diploma, my gaze sweeps over the audience. My eyes find Makar almost instantly, his towering frame impossible to miss even seated. He’s not clapping like the others—of course he isn’t—but his piercing blue eyes are locked on me, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. My heart skips a beat, and I can’t help but smile back.
The ceremony passes in a blur of speeches and cheers, the weight of the diploma in my hands grounding me in reality. When the graduates are dismissed, the crowd erupts into a joyous commotion as families flood the field, searching for their loved ones.
I spot Makar immediately, standing at the edge of the crowd with Anatoly perched on his hip. At almost three years old, Anatoly is already a miniature version of his father, his dark hair a mess of soft curls and his big blue eyes scanning the crowd with curiosity.
“There’s Mommy,” Makar says, his voice low but unmistakably proud as he points me out.
“Mommy!” Anatoly calls, squirming in Makar’s arms.
I laugh, weaving through the crowd until I reach them. Anatoly launches himself into my arms the moment I’m close enough, and I stagger slightly under his weight before holding him tightly.
“You saw me, huh?” I ask, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. “You’re so cool, Mommy.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I say, grinning as I brush a hand through his messy hair.
Makar steps closer, his free hand brushing lightly over the small of my back. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice quieter now.
“Thank you,” I reply, looking up at him. “For everything. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
His lips twitch into a faint smirk. “You could have,” he says. “I’m still glad I was here.”
I rise onto my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hands slide to my waist, steadying me as I press a kiss to his lips. It’s gentle, tender, but the way his fingers tighten against me says so much more.
A small voice cuts through the moment, full of exaggerated disgust. “Ew! Gross!”
I pull back, laughing as I turn to Anatoly, who’s wrinkling his nose at us from where he sits cross-legged in the grass.
“Gross, huh?” I say, walking over to scoop him up despite his squirming protests. “You won’t think it’s so gross when you’re older.”
He shakes his head vehemently, his curls bouncing. “Nope. Never. Kissing is yucky.”
Makar chuckles, stepping up beside us. “Don’t worry, kid. It gets better.”
“Not listening!” Anatoly declares, covering his ears with his small hands.
***
Later, as we’re gathering our things to leave, one of my friends from university comes jogging over, waving enthusiastically. “Hannah! Are you guys coming to the after-party?”
I glance at Makar, who raises an eyebrow in silent question.
“It’s just at Marcie’s place,” my friend continues, grinning as her gaze flicks to Makar. “You have to come. Everyone wants to meet your husband.”
I hesitate, glancing at Anatoly, who’s now happily showing off his juice box to Vera. “I don’t know….”
“I’ll stay with him,” Vera says kindly, but before I can respond, Andrei steps forward, smirking.
“I’ll handle him,” Andrei says, ruffling Anatoly’s hair and earning a dramatic “Hey!” in protest. “We’ll have a great time. Won’t we, little man?”
Anatoly beams up at him. “Can we play cars?”
“Of course,” Andrei replies, his tone mock-serious. “I’ll even let you win.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You spoil him.”
“That’s my job,” Andrei quips.
Makar glances at me, his expression relaxed but expectant. “Let’s go,” he says. “It’s your day.”
When we arrive, Marcie’s house is a cozy, bustling scene, the party spilling out onto the patio and yard. Music plays softly in the background, and the laughter of my friends fills the air as Makar and I step inside.
Almost immediately, we’re greeted with cheers and congratulations, a whirlwind of hugs and excited chatter.
“Is this him?” someone asks, their gaze darting between me and Makar.
“Yes,” I say, smiling as I slip my hand into his. “This is Makar.”
He nods politely, his usual composed demeanor firmly in place, but I notice the way people seem drawn to him. He answers questions with ease, his charm subtle but effective. No one here knows what he does for a living, and for now, that’s exactly how I want it to stay.
“You’ve got a keeper,” one of my friends whispers to me as Makar steps away to fetch me a drink. “He’s hot and so nice. Does he have a brother?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Not one you’d want to date.”
She laughs and wanders off, leaving me blissfully alone with Makar.
“Dance with me?” I ask, turning to him.
His eyebrow arches, but he doesn’t hesitate. “You’re sure you’re up for it?”
I nod, taking his hand. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”
A faint smirk plays on his lips as he lets me lead him onto the floor.
The music is upbeat, and while my movements are slower than usual, the joy of the moment is infectious. Makar moves with surprising ease, his hands resting lightly on my waist as we find a rhythm together.
“You’re not bad at this,” I tease, grinning up at him.
“I’m full of surprises,” he replies, his smirk deepening.
I laugh, leaning into him as the song shifts into something slower. His arms tighten around me, and for a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people in the room.
As the party winds down, we step outside into the cool night air. The stars are bright above us, the city lights twinkling in the distance.
Makar slips his arm around my waist, pulling me close. “Did you have fun?” he asks, his voice low.
“I did,” I say, resting my head against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”
“Like I said,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my temple, “it’s your day.”
I smile, savoring the warmth of his presence. But before I can respond, he pulls back slightly, his blue eyes glinting with something unreadable.
“What?” I ask, tilting my head.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says, his smirk returning.
“A surprise?” I echo, raising an eyebrow.
“You’ll see,” he replies, his tone teasing.
My curiosity flares, but before I can press him further, he takes my hand, leading me toward the car. Whatever he has planned, I can’t help but feel a spark of excitement. With Makar, every moment feels like the start of something new.
Ten minutes later, the car pulls to a stop in front of a sleek building tucked into one of the quieter streets of the city. Its modern architecture glints in the moonlight, large glass panels giving glimpses of the softly lit interior.
I glance at Makar, my brow furrowing. “What is this?”
“Come inside,” he says, his smirk faint but tinged with something softer.
I hesitate for a moment before taking his outstretched hand. The warmth of his palm steadies me as we step out of the car. My heart races with curiosity as he leads me to the entrance.
Andrei is already there, Anatoly perched on his shoulders. My son beams at me, waving enthusiastically. “Mommy! Look, it’s so big!”
“It is,” I agree, smiling as I ruffle his hair.
Andrei lowers Anatoly to the ground, letting him dart to Makar’s side. Makar scoops him up effortlessly, his expression softening as our son wraps his arms around his neck.
I step closer to the glass doors, peering inside. My breath catches as I take in the scene.
Paintings line the pristine white walls, each piece illuminated by carefully placed lights. Sculptures stand on pedestals scattered throughout the room, their forms striking and intricate. The entire space is filled with life and creativity, a celebration of art in all its forms.
“Makar,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “What is this?”
He shifts Anatoly in his arms, nodding toward the door. “Go inside,” he says simply.
My hands shake as I push the door open, stepping into the gallery. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of fresh paint and polished wood.
“It’s yours,” Makar says, his voice low but steady.
I spin to face him, my eyes wide. “What?”
“This gallery,” he continues, his blue eyes locked on mine. “It’s for you. A place to showcase your work and the work of others. A place where you can build something lasting.”
I blink, my thoughts a whirlwind. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll use it,” he replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
Tears prick my eyes as I glance around the room again, the enormity of the gesture sinking in. This isn’t just a gift—it’s a testament to everything we’ve built together.
“I don’t deserve this,” I murmur, shaking my head.
“Yes, you do,” Makar says firmly, stepping closer. “You’ve worked for this, Hannah. You’ve earned it.”
Anatoly squirms in his arms, reaching out to me. I take him, holding him close as he babbles excitedly about the room.
“Do you like it, Mommy?” he asks, his big blue eyes shining.
“I love it,” I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
As we walk through the gallery, Andrei trails behind us, his usual smirk firmly in place. “I told him this was over the top,” he says, shaking his head.
“It’s perfect,” I reply, my voice firm.
Makar glances at Andrei, his expression cool. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
Andrei shrugs, unbothered. “You never do.”
We reach the far end of the gallery, where a small plaque catches my eye. I lean closer, my breath catching as I read the inscription.
The Hannah Sharov Gallery: A Space for Art and Community.
My tears spill over as I turn to Makar, my voice trembling. “You named it after me?”
“Of course,” he says, his tone casual, though there’s a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “It’s yours.”
I clutch Anatoly tighter, my heart swelling as I glance between the two of them. Makar stands tall and steady, his usual stoicism softened by the faintest of smiles. In his arms, Anatoly chatters away about how he’s going to draw pictures to hang on the walls.
“I love you,” I say softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Makar’s smirk fades into something gentler, and he steps closer, bending slightly to press a kiss to my forehead. “I love you too,” he murmurs.
Makar’s kiss lingers on my forehead, and when he pulls back, his blue eyes meet mine with a softness I’m still not used to. “Show me your work,” he says simply, his voice low but insistent.
My heart skips, a flicker of nervousness stirring in my chest. “You’ve seen it before,” I reply, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Not like this,” he counters, gesturing to the room around us. “Not the way you want the world to see it.”
His words settle over me, both grounding and empowering. I take his hand, leading him toward the first painting displayed near the entrance. It’s one of my earlier works, a vibrant swirl of blues and golds that I created during a rare quiet moment in the early days of our marriage.
“This one,” I say, my voice soft. “It’s about finding peace in chaos.”
Makar studies it for a moment, his hands tucked into his pockets. “I don’t know much about art,” he admits, glancing at me. “But I know I like this. It feels… strong.”
My cheeks warm, and I bite back a smile. “That’s a good interpretation.”
He smirks faintly, his gaze returning to the painting. “Then you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for.”
We move through the gallery, stopping at each piece as I explain the story behind it. There’s a sketch of Anatoly, his chubby toddler cheeks captured in delicate lines, and a soft watercolor of a lavender field that reminds me of the nursery we prepared for our second baby.
“You made all of this while dealing with me and our son?” Makar asks, raising an eyebrow.
I laugh, nudging him lightly. “You’re not as difficult as you think.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and something in his gaze shifts—pride mingling with affection.
Soon, the gallery begins to fill with people. Guests trickle in, their expressions curious and admiring as they wander through the space. I find myself caught in a whirlwind of compliments and questions, my nerves slowly melting away with each kind word.
“This is stunning,” one woman says, gesturing to a piece depicting a moonlit garden. “Are you selling it?”
The question catches me off guard, and I glance at Makar, who stands a few feet away, watching me closely.
“I’m not sure,” I admit, my fingers twisting nervously. “I haven’t thought about it.”
The woman nods, offering me a card. “If you decide to, please let me know. I’d love to have it.”
I thank her, taking the card as she moves on. Makar steps closer, his presence steadying me.
“What do you think?” he asks, his tone neutral.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “It feels strange… the idea of selling something so personal.”
Makar nods, his expression thoughtful. “Then don’t.”
I blink up at him, surprised by the simplicity of his answer.
“It’s your work,” he continues, his voice firm but calm. “If you want to sell it, do it. If you don’t, then don’t. Nobody gets to decide that but you.”
The weight of his words settles over me, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest. “You really think it’s that simple?”
“For you?” he says, smirking faintly. “It can be.”
I smile, leaning into him briefly before turning my attention back to the room.
The night passes in a blur of laughter, conversations, and a growing sense of pride as more people approach me with compliments and inquiries about my work. Each interaction feels like a small step toward the life I’ve always dreamed of, one where my passions aren’t just a hobby but something real and tangible.
As the crowd begins to thin, I find myself back near the entrance, gazing at one of my favorite pieces—a bold abstract painting full of swirling reds and oranges. It’s a reminder of the fire I’ve found within myself, a spark reignited through love, determination, and freedom.
Makar joins me, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back.
“Tired yet?” he asks, his voice tinged with amusement.
“A little,” I admit, glancing up at him. “It’s a good kind of tired.”
He nods, his eyes scanning the room before returning to mine. “You’ve done something incredible here, Hannah.”
I reach up, brushing my fingers over his cheek. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
His lips twitch into a faint smile, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to my lips. It’s soft at first, but as his hand moves to cradle my face, it deepens, a quiet declaration of everything we’ve built together.
When we finally pull apart, the world around us feels brighter, the weight of the evening replaced by a quiet contentment.
“Ready to head home?” he asks, his hand slipping into mine.
“Not yet,” I reply, my gaze drifting back to the gallery. “Just one more moment.”
Makar nods, his grip tightening slightly as we stand together, watching as the space slowly empties, the echoes of the evening lingering in the air.
In this moment, surrounded by the life we’ve created and the love we’ve found, I know we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.
*****
THE END