Chapter Twenty-One - Jessa
Sunlight slips through thin white curtains, painting golden stripes across the scuffed wooden floor of my little coastal house.
The air is thick with the salty tang of the sea, drifting in from an open window and swirling with the scent of oatmeal bubbling on the stove and coffee brewing in its chipped pot.
This is the quiet rhythm of our mornings now: slow, bright, and full of small comforts I never thought I’d get back.
In the square of sunlight by the table, Liana and Sofia play with a jumble of old blocks. Liana sits straight-backed, her tiny hands moving with careful precision as she stacks the blocks higher and higher.
She bites her lip in concentration, her blue-gray eyes intense and older than they should be for a three-year-old.
Beside her, Sofia is pure joy and mischief. She giggles as her tower topples, sending blocks skittering across the floor, then claps for herself like she’s won something big. Liana frowns and starts over without a word, stubborn in a way that makes my heart ache.
I stand at the stove, stirring oatmeal, the steam rising into my face, my hair twisted up in a messy bun. My T-shirt is faded, my leggings soft from too many washes. I keep one eye on the girls, my other senses always tuned for the smallest sign of danger or change outside our little haven.
Here, right now, I allow myself to hum—an old Russian lullaby, the words mostly lost but the melody part of me.
“Well done!” I call, encouraging her in Russian. “That’s so tall! Sofia, let’s try again, sweetheart. Can you make it even bigger this time?”
Sofia flashes me a grin and pushes the blocks together, determined to outdo her sister.
Liana just glances up at me, eyes serious, and nods before returning to her building.
I smile to myself, caught between pride and a fierce, aching love.
They are the anchor that keeps me steady in this uncertain world.
I glance out the window. The sea is distant but always there, its blue-gray horizon reminding me of everything I’ve left behind. I let myself enjoy it for just a second. This life is so small, so fragile, but in these moments, I feel safe. I feel real.
Their names are prayers I whisper every night: Liana, for grace and strength, and Sofia, for wisdom and hope. I want to believe that by choosing these names, I’ve set something sacred in motion.
They are the reason I’ve kept going, through exhaustion and fear. Every day, I promise them silently: I’ll keep you safe, I’ll keep you free, I’ll never let the past steal your future.
I scoop oatmeal into three mismatched bowls, drizzle honey, and add cut fruit from the market.
The girls scramble up to the table, feet swinging.
Sofia grabs her spoon first, her words tumbling out in eager, half-finished English.
“Mama, can we go to the market today? I want the biggest orange ever. The really big one!”
“We’ll see,” I reply, switching between English and Russian with barely a thought. “If you finish your breakfast.”
Liana sits quietly for a moment, then asks in Russian, “ Can we draw after?”
“Of course, baby,” I say, smoothing her hair. “Art time, then English lesson later.”
Sofia hums a tune between bites, and Liana nods, content, her attention turning back to her oatmeal.
I sit across from them and talk through the day: my little photography job at the harbor, our art lesson, the English I’ll teach them and a few neighbor kids after lunch, story time tonight with our favorite fairy tale.
I marvel at how these routines have become sacred, how something so ordinary can feel like a miracle.
A neighbor’s dog barks outside. I turn to see Mrs. Evans, wrapped in her shawl, waving as she hobbles by the window. I wave back, smiling, grateful for her kindness and the way she’s quietly welcomed us here. It’s the closest I’ve felt to belonging in years.
As I wipe oatmeal from Sofia’s cheeks, I think about the choice to raise them bilingual. I never explain it to anyone, never tell the shopkeeper or the other moms at the playground why my girls slip from English to Russian and back again.
It’s a promise to myself and to them, a way to keep our roots alive, a shield against forgetting where we come from.
Sofia leans into my hand, chattering in her sweet mix of both languages. “Mama, you say the word for apple in Russian again? Say it!”
I reply, and she repeats it, giggling. Liana joins in, showing off her careful accent, and for a moment the kitchen is filled with their laughter and the warm, bright chaos of family.
When breakfast is done, I watch them gather their blocks and drift back to their sunlit corner. I sit for a moment longer, letting the peace linger, letting myself believe that this life is real and lasting. I press my hands together, close my eyes, and offer another silent prayer of gratitude.
Every morning is a victory. Every meal we share is proof that I’ve made the right choice.
Most days, I believe in it enough to keep moving forward, enough to let myself plan for tomorrow.
After I clean up from breakfast, I herd the girls into their shoes and light sweaters, brushing knots from Sofia’s curls and pinning back Liana’s hair with a gentle hand.
They are excited for their morning at Mrs. Evans’s cottage, where there are always cookies, puzzles, and an old terrier who tolerates their hugs. Sofia asks a hundred questions on the walk over, while Liana studies the pebbles along the path. At the door, Mrs. Evans greets us with her usual warmth.
“Come in, come in, my loves!” She ruffles the girls’ hair and winks at me. “They’ll be fine, Jessa. You take your time.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Trust is hard-won, and I don’t offer it easily.
The walk to the studio is short but quiet, the breeze heavy with salt and the distant sound of waves.
I keep my camera slung across my chest like armor, head down, blending in with the handful of locals out running errands or chatting on benches.
I smile and nod, but never linger long enough to be remembered.
At the art studio, I am greeted by Marisol, the owner, who is always painting her own canvases in the back room, radio humming with old love songs. She glances up as I step in, wiping her hands on a paint-stained rag.
“Morning, Jessa,” she says, her accent musical, her eyes kind but never prying. “The photos from the Rodriguez wedding came out beautiful. They were thrilled.”
I relax a little, offering her a small smile. “Thank you. They were a lovely family.”
She nods, already turning back to her easel. “You have an eye for it. People feel comfortable with you. That’s rare.”
I’m grateful for her words—and more grateful that she doesn’t ask why I never let anyone take my picture. I spend the morning in the darkroom, developing film, sorting through prints for the bakery, the bait shop, the family who wanted beach portraits for a Christmas card.
The work is simple, grounding. I lose myself in the process—the red glow of the lamp, the scent of chemicals, the hush that settles over me when I am focused on the frame.
When I leave, Marisol calls, “See you next week, Jessa!” I wave, tucking a few bills into my pocket.
On the way home, I stop at the market, buying fresh bread and fruit, some cheese for the girls’ lunch. I smile at the vendor, who smiles back, and that’s the extent of our conversation. Here, I am known just enough to belong, but never enough to be remembered for long.
In the afternoon, I set up my laptop at the kitchen table.
The girls are home, sprawled on the floor with coloring books and blocks.
I teach English online to students across the world, careful to keep my background blurred, careful never to give away more than I must. My voice is calm and steady as I explain grammar and pronunciation, answer questions about idioms, and encourage shy learners to speak up.
Between lessons, I watch Liana draw careful lines in her coloring book, tongue between her teeth in concentration.
Sofia sprawls on her stomach, coloring a sun that spills off the page in wild, joyful yellow.
Sometimes they fight, but mostly they share giggles and secret stories, inventing games with their blocks.
I’m aware, always, of how fragile this normalcy is, but I let myself lean in to the routine. Honest work. Predictable days. The simple satisfaction of making a home that feels like mine.
Dinner is soup and bread, cut fruit and soft cheese. The girls chatter through the meal, Sofia telling a story about the neighbor’s dog chasing its tail, Liana correcting her with gentle authority. I listen, joining in their laughter, letting the worries of the world fall away.
After dinner, we clear the table together and spread out on the living room floor with crayons and scraps of paper.
Sofia’s drawings are all bold colors and wild shapes: purple trees, pink suns, smiling cats with crooked tails.
Liana’s are careful, almost architectural, her houses and flowers always precise, her letters neatly printed in Russian and English.
I draw with them, making silly faces and lopsided hearts, treasuring the way their creativity spills across the room.
Bath time is chaos—water everywhere, giggles and shrieks echoing off the tile.
I wash their hair, helping them count in Russian, then wrap them in fluffy towels.
Teeth are brushed, pajamas pulled on, and we settle into the big bed beneath the faded quilt.
They insist on sharing a bed, tangling together like kittens, Sofia’s head always finding Liana’s shoulder.
I sit between them, reading fairy tales. One night in English, the next in Russian, my voice rising and falling, making them laugh with silly voices or gasp at the suspense. I see their eyes grow heavy, their bodies relaxing into the stories and the softness of home.