Chapter 5
FIVE
ANYA
The kitchen feels warmer this morning, not just from the stove but from the way Roman’s mother fills it.
She talks with her hands and laughs with her whole chest, and she keeps sliding the plate of pirozhki toward us like we’re going to pretend we’re full if she doesn’t watch us closely.
Roman rolls his eyes at her in that long-practiced way sons do, but he still takes another one when she nudges the plate closer.
“You eat like you are still sixteen,” she tells him in Russian.
“And you cook like I am still sixteen,” he answers, reaching for more anyway.
I smile into my coffee because it feels intimate to watch them like this. Familiar. Loud in the small ways that families are loud. My childhood breakfasts were quieter. Structured. Scheduled. My father rarely lingered at the table unless there was something to discuss. Something strategic.
Here, no one is discussing strategy. Roman’s mother asks him if he’s been sleeping enough. He lies. She calls him out. He shrugs. She tells me he was stubborn as a child and refused to wear a coat even in snow. He denies it. She ignores him.
It’s easy to forget myself for a few minutes.
She turns to me eventually, of course. “So, Anastasiya,” she says, pronouncing it carefully, like she wants to get it right. “How do you like it here?”
The question is gentle. Casual.
I feel Roman’s attention shift toward me without looking at him.
“It’s… different,” I say, because that is safe.
She studies my face as I answer, and I realize too late that I should have adjusted the sleeve of Roman’s shirt. The fabric slips back just enough to expose my wrist. The bruising is lighter than it was yesterday, but it is still there. Yellow around the edges. Faint green beneath the skin.
Her expression changes.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
“Oh,” she says softly. “Sweetheart… what happened?”
The room gets quiet. Roman doesn’t speak. He doesn’t jump in to fix it or redirect. He just looks at me. Waiting.
He’s giving me the choice. I set my mug down carefully so my hands don’t shake against it.
“I met Roman about a week ago,” I begin, and my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“I wasn’t exactly… I was in a bad situation,” I continue.
I don’t give details. I don’t describe chains or concrete floors or the smell of rust. “He found me and pulled me out of it.” I glance at Roman for half a second.
He’s watching me, but there’s no pity in his face.
Just quiet focus. “He saved me,” I finish.
The words feel heavy and small at the same time.
Roman’s mother looks at him, and something fierce and proud flashes across her face. “You did?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.
He shrugs, but it’s the kind of shrug that doesn’t dismiss anything. “Anyone would have.”
She makes a soft sound that says she does not agree.
Then she looks back at me, and there is no suspicion in her eyes. No calculation. Just concern. “And you are safe here?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
She reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. It’s warm and steady and unapologetically maternal. I don’t realize how much I miss that kind of touch until it’s there. “I’m glad he found you,” she says.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “So am I.”
Roman’s mother doesn’t let the quiet sit too long after I answer her. She squeezes my hand once and then leans back in her chair, eyeing her son with open suspicion.
“So,” she says, switching back to Russian, “you meet a girl in trouble and you do not think to tell your mother?”
Roman exhales through his nose. “Dobroye utro to you too, Mama.”
“I said good morning,” she shoots back. “You conveniently ignored the rest.”
I glance between them, trying not to smile.
“It wasn’t exactly planned,” Roman says. “It just… happened.”
She snorts softly. “Nothing just happens with you, Misha. You plan everything.”
“That’s not true.”
“You reorganized my pantry when you were twelve,” she reminds him.
He points his fork at her. “It was inefficient.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You see?” Then she looks at me. “He has always been like this. Serious. Watching everything. Even as a little boy.”
Roman shifts in his chair. “Mama.”
“No, let me speak,” she says, waving him off. “It has only been the two of us for a long time.” Her tone changes slightly when she says it. “My husband died when Roman was young,” she explains, her English careful but steady. “Too young. He barely remembers him.”
Roman’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t look away.
“He decided very early that he was the man of the house,” she continues. “I did not ask him to. He just… did it. If something broke, he fixed it. If someone looked at me wrong, he noticed.” She smiles faintly. “He has always looked out for his mama.”
Roman huffs quietly. “She makes it sound dramatic.”
“It was dramatic,” she counters. “You were ten and yelling at a grown man in the grocery store because he cut in line.”
“He cut in front of you,” Roman says flatly.
She points at him triumphantly. “You see?”
I can’t help it. I laugh. Roman glances at me, and there’s something almost shy in the corner of his mouth before he hides it behind another bite of food.
“He has always carried too much on his shoulders,” his mother says more gently now. “Even before he was strong enough to.”
There’s no accusation in her voice, just the truth.
Roman sets his fork down and looks at her steadily. “You weren’t alone.”
She reaches over and touches his hand this time. “No,” she agrees softly. “I wasn’t.”
For a second, something quiet settles over the table. Then she looks back at me with renewed curiosity. “And now he is rescuing women from bad situations,” she says lightly. “I suppose this is an upgrade from reorganizing my pantry.”
Roman groans. “Mama.”
But I see it clearly now. His instinct and protectiveness. The way he asked me last night if I wanted space instead of deciding for me. The way he waited for my answer. He wasn’t raised to dominate a room.He was raised to guard it.
“So,” Irina says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “how long are you planning on staying?”
I glance at Roman without thinking. He doesn’t answer for me. He just shrugs slightly, giving the choice back. “I think I’ll be leaving later today,” I say.
Irina’s gaze sharpens in curiosity. “Is that what you want?”
The question pulls a small, startled laugh from me before I can stop it. I press my fingers to my mouth. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” she asks gently.
“No one has ever really asked me that before.”
“My father tells me what to do,” I continue, keeping my voice measured. “And I listen.”
Irina nods slowly, as if she understands more than I’ve said.
“I can respect that you respect your father,” she replies.
“Loyalty matters. Family matters.” She folds her hands on the table, gold wedding band still on her finger even after all these years.
“But if you are not doing what makes you happy, that is a very long life spent making other people comfortable.” Her words don’t come out harsh.
They come out knowing. “I am not telling you to rebel,” she adds, her accent thickening slightly.
“I am saying there is a difference between honoring your father and erasing yourself for him.”
I look down at my coffee. “My life has always been structured,” I say quietly. “There is a plan for me.”
Irina’s eyes soften, but they don’t look away. “Is it your plan?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t know how. Roman hasn’t spoken this whole time, but I can feel him watching me, not pushing, not rescuing. Just there.
Irina reaches across the table and touches my hand again, her skin warm and steady. “You deserve to be asked what you want,” she says. “Even if the answer scares you.”
Irina glances at the clock on the stove and exhales softly, as if she’s just remembered the rest of her day waiting for her.
“I must get out of here,” she says, pushing her chair back. “I have some things to do at home, and it sounds like you both have… things going on here.”
There’s meaning in the way her eyes move between Roman and me, but she doesn’t press pry.
Roman stands automatically. I rise a second later, because remaining seated feels wrong somehow.
She turns to me first. “Anastasiya,” she says, reaching for my hands. “It was very good to meet you. I hope to see you again.”
Her fingers tighten gently around mine before she adds, softer now, “But if I don’t, remember what I said. You deserve to have a say in your life.” The words land differently this time. Heavier. Closer.
Before I can respond properly, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me.
The hug is gentle. I go still for a brief second out of reflex, then I let myself return it.
Her embrace is warm and steady, and something in my chest loosens in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“Spasibo,” I whisper against her shoulder.
She pulls back slowly, studying my face as if she’s committing it to memory. Then she turns to Roman. “You behave,” she tells him.
“I always behave,” he replies.
She arches a brow in silent disbelief, then leans up and kisses his cheek before gathering her purse.
Roman walks her to the back door and I stay where I am, standing in the quiet kitchen, her words echoing inside me long after the door closes. You deserve to have a say in your life. No one has ever told me that before.
I stand there for a minute after the door closes behind Irina, the kitchen suddenly quieter without her laughter filling it. Roman says something low as he comes back in, but I don’t quite catch it. My mind is still wrapped around her words.
You deserve to have a say in your life.
I murmur something about needing to get dressed and slip down the hallway to the guest room.
The bed is still slightly rumpled from the night before, the blanket half folded where Roman tucked it around me.
I pause for a second, pressing my palm against the mattress like I’m grounding myself, then open the small bag of clothes and pull out something simple to change into.
Inside the bathroom, I lock the door out of habit before turning on the shower.
Steam fills the small space quickly, fogging the mirror and softening the sharp edges of everything.
I step under the hot water and let it hit my shoulders, then my face, closing my eyes as the heat sinks into muscles that still feel tight from weeks of tension.
I let the water run until the bathroom fills with steam and the mirror disappears completely, until there’s nothing reflected back at me but heat and blur.
My skin turns pink where the spray hits it, and the bruises along my arms look softer now, muted instead of violent.
They’re no longer that deep, angry purple.
They’re fading into yellow and green, into something quieter.
Healing. Proof that time keeps moving whether I am ready for it or not, whether I want it to or not.
Irina’s voice keeps circling in my head, calm and steady, the way she said it without judgment.
You deserve to have a say in your life. I rest my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes, letting the water run over my back while I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest. I could never disobey my father.
The thought isn’t dramatic or rebellious.
It’s instinctive. Immediate. It settles into me like law.
Loyalty in my family is not a suggestion.
It is structure. It is survival. My father does not need to demand obedience because it has always been understood.
If I chose something he did not approve of, if I stayed here when he expected me to return, if I stepped outside the plan that has been in place for me since I was old enough to understand what alliances mean, he would disown me.
Not in a rage. Not with shouting or threats.
He would simply remove me, clean and precise, like a decision that no longer serves its purpose.
The word itself feels heavier than it should.
Disown. Not anger. Finality. A quiet severing that cannot be undone.
I swallow hard under the spray and lift my face into the water.
And yet the question won’t go away. What do I even want?
It feels reckless to ask it, almost childish.
I have always known what was required of me.
Where to stand. When to speak. Who to smile at.
Which futures were acceptable and which were not.
My life has been mapped out in careful lines, and I have followed them because that is what daughters like me do.
But if none of that existed, if I woke up tomorrow and the only question waiting for me was what would make me happy, what would I choose?
I try to picture it and struggle at first because there has never been space for imagination.
Maybe a life where my last name does not enter the room before I do.
A place where no one looks at me and sees leverage.
Maybe mornings that look like today, with coffee and laughter and someone’s mother teasing him about wearing a coat in winter.
Or maybe something even simpler than that.
Quiet. Peace. The freedom to make a mistake that only belongs to me.
The water pounds against my shoulders, and I press my palms flat against the tile to steady myself.
If I choose myself, I lose my father. If I go back without question, I lose whatever part of me is starting to wake up here.
And standing in the steam with the bruises fading on my skin and the future pressing in from both sides, I don’t know which loss would hurt more.