Chapter 36 #3
Sofia nods as she slides from my lap and pads out of the room. I exhale softly.
Viktor straightens, watching her leave before looking back at me. “Does she always ask for hugs when she’s upset?”
I nod. “It’s how she regulates when things get to be too much. Her sensory system gets overwhelmed. The only things that help are big bear hugs. Anything that makes her feel compressed and anchored.”
He nods, slow and thoughtful. I can see the gears turning behind his eyes.
“She’s autistic too,” I say after a moment.
I’m pretty sure Viktor already realized this was what I was referring to when we spoke at the rink.
It’s not really a confession. Just a fact we live with.
Sofia isn’t broken or wrong. Just different.
And I love her for this. And I’ll defend that until my dying days.
“Sometimes, emotions are hard for her to understand and deal with. Change and transitions are difficult too. Loud noises, busy places, different textures—the sensory signals from all those things just add up to be too much for her brain to cope with at times. But I don’t have to tell you about sensory overload, huh? ”
He nods. “No, you don’t. But it makes sense.” His expression softens. And I know he understands her in a way I never will.
“I want to tell her,” I admit softly, “about her autism. We haven’t really talked about it explicitly because she was too young before to really understand. But I just don’t want her to think there’s something wrong. She knows she’s different. But she’s not broken or built wrong.”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “She’s not. And maybe telling her will help her understand things better.”
“Maybe. But I want her to know anyway. I just don’t quite know how to explain it. I want her to be proud of who she is.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then nods. “You’ll find a way when the time is right.”
Viktor hands me a book a few days later. I glance at the title on the cover: All Cats Have Autism. My eyebrows shoot up in a mixture of surprise and confusion.
“I remembered seeing this book online once,” Viktor explains. “It’s described as being a way to explain autism to children. You could take a look.”
I leaf through the pages. It’s whimsical and sweet.
Filled with illustrated cats doing many of the things Sofia does.
Needing a rigid routine. Keeping to very set times for meals, playing, and sleep.
Curling up in a small, tight space when they’re scared or anxious.
Having oversensitive hearing and disliking noise.
And so many other things too. And it’s perfect.
My chest tightens. He went to all this trouble…
“Thank you, Viktor,” I whisper as I blink back my tears.
He also hands over another delivery box.
I look inside to find a weighted blanket, plus a pair of ear defenders decorated with pink cat ears and cat faces.
“I thought Sofia might like a weighted blanket sometimes,” he says.
“It can feel a bit like a tight hug. And the ear defenders…I notice that sometimes she doesn’t like wearing hers, so I thought maybe she might find a cat pair a bit more appealing.
I saw them online and thought I’d just get them on the off chance. ”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing.
Like it doesn’t mean the world to me that he’s trying to help us. Like this is just a run-of-the-mill sort of thing.
And maybe it is for him. But for me, it’s not.
That night, I hand the book to Sofia with a hopeful expression. She’s curled up in her bed, watching The Lion King before going to sleep.
“Hey, baby. I thought you might like this.”
She takes it, eyes scanning the cover.
I speak to her in a low voice. “It’s called All Cats Have Autism. It reminded me of you. In a good way. I think this might help you.”
She flips it open, glances at a page or two, then closes it gently, setting it on the nightstand beside her. “Maybe later.”
A pang hits me. Not because she isn’t excited. She’s allowed to process things at her own pace. But because I’d hoped and imagined her reading it and understanding everything.
But she’s quiet. Withdrawn. And suddenly I’m not sure this was the right thing to do. Maybe I should’ve just had a conversation with her. Sat her down and gone from there. I kiss the top of her head, keeping my voice even. “Okay, baby.”
She hums and leans into me for a second before returning to her movie.
I leave the room with a tightness in my chest I hadn’t expected. I settle in the rec room. A poker game is in full swing. Babulya rocks in the corner, watching the game unfold and offering commentary in Russian.
But I don’t linger long. Instead, I head back to the office to finish a little work.
As I type, my phone lights up with a new email. And my heart plummets like an out-of-control roller-coaster.
Because between job board alerts and spam messages about refinancing, there’s a name.
A name I haven’t heard in years.
A name I never wanted to hear ever again.
Gennady.
Bile burns my throat. I don’t want to open it. My finger hovers over the email. I push out a shaky breath. And then I click on it. It’s short and to the point: “I’ll be in the States next week. I’d like to see you. It’s been too long.”
That’s it. No date. No explanation. No apology for the past. Nothing.
My hands shake. I read and reread the email. Once. Twice. Three times.
He shouldn’t want to see me. He shouldn’t even know my email address. It’s an email I use for private things, and it was created after I left Russia. After I left that life behind forever.
My heart hammers. I can’t get enough air.
I stand too fast. The chair skids back, scraping loudly.
I want to run. But where?
I shake my head. It’s just one man. Just a name. A ghost from a past I thought I’d buried.
And yet—dread crawls up my spine. The cold certainty in my gut tells me something is about to go wrong. That the life I’ve built, the peace I’ve started to find with Viktor and the children, is about to totally unravel.
Because men like Gennady never let you go.
I should delete the email. Pretend it never came.
But that won’t stop it. Won’t fix it. Won’t stop him.
And I realize, with bone-deep fear, that I don’t know how to protect this life I’m building.
I was stupid. Naive.
To think that I was safe.
To think that I could put my past behind me.
And to think that I could actually be happy.