Chapter Six
Ilona
The pull-out couch is a nightmare of broken springs and threadbare fabric that Mom bought secondhand when she moved into this place.
Every morning I wake up with the metal bar digging into my ribs, my neck twisted at an angle that leaves me stiff for hours.
The living room serves as living, dining room, and storage space all at once.
My few belongings— the backpack I fled with and two thrift store sweaters I bought last week— are stacked in the corner next to Mom’s small dining table.
The kitchenette takes up one wall, separated from the living space by nothing more than a change in flooring, making the whole area feel even more cramped.
I fold the thin blanket and push the couch back into sitting position, clearing space for another day.
Mom’s already in the kitchen area, her movements careful and quiet.
I notice she’s gripping the counter edge as she reaches for the coffee, her shoulders tight.
Her adjoining bedroom is not much better than the cramped space I’ve been sleeping in.
The small cot has a mattress that’s seen better days, and her clothing hangs on a rail pushed up against one wall.
No luxurious fabrics, no designer labels; I’m guessing she sold all of it to try to make a dent in Dad’s debts.
Oh, Dad…
I want to weep when I think about him and all that we’ve lost. All that Mom has had to endure.
This apartment is nothing like the house I grew up in.
That house had crown molding and a kitchen island where Dad would sit with his morning coffee, reading news on his tablet while humming off-key.
This place has water stains on the ceiling and a radiator that clanks like it’s possessed.
But we make it work. We have to.
I pad to the kitchen in my socks, stepping over the squeaky floorboard that always gives me away. Mom’s standing at the counter with her back to me, pouring coffee into two mismatched mugs.
“Morning, sweetheart.” She doesn’t turn around, but her voice carries that forced brightness she’s perfected since Dad died. “Sleep okay?”
“Like a baby,” I lie, accepting the mug she offers when she finally faces me, her smile not hiding the shadows beneath her eyes, or the gauntness of her cheeks. The coffee’s watery and bitter— the cheapest brand from the discount store— but I drink it anyway.
She studies my face with sharp eyes, no doubt taking in my own drawn features. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” I settle into one of the two chairs at her tiny table, wrapping my hands around the warmth of the mug. “Actually, I have news.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Good news or bad news?”
“Depends on how you look at it.” I reach into my purse and pull out the small black and white image that’s been burning a hole in my wallet since yesterday. “I saw the gynecologist yesterday, but you were asleep when I got home, so I couldn’t show you. Dr. Martinez says everything looks perfect.”
Mom’s coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips. Her eyes fix on the ultrasound photo, and for a moment, her careful composure cracks. “Oh, Ilona…”
“It’s real, Mom. It’s actually happening.” My voice wavers despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “She said if I make it past twelve weeks, the chances of miscarriage drop significantly. I’m almost at eight weeks now.”
She sets down her mug with hands that shake slightly— rough now from the harsh cleaning chemicals at her new job, so different from the soft manicures she used to get weekly. She reaches for the photo. “Look at that little profile. Oh my God, Ilona, you can already see—”
“I know.” I swallow hard. “I stared at it for an hour yesterday.”
“Have you…?” She trails off, but I know what she’s asking.
“No. Osip doesn’t know.” I still struggle to say his name out loud. “Only you, Dr. Varga back in Budapest, and now Dr. Martinez.”
Mom nods slowly. “That’s probably for the best.”
Is it? I’m not sure anymore. Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep on the broken springs, I imagine what it would be like to call him.
To hear his voice, low and rough with that accent that used to make me melt.
To tell him about the baby’s tiny heartbeat, how it sounds like some sort of underwater miracle.
To share this moment with the man who helped create this life.
But then I remember that phone call with Jason, the way the world had turned upside down when he told me the truth. The man I’d fallen for, the father of my child— he’s the reason my father is dead. How do you reconcile loving someone who destroyed your family?
“I have money,” I say quietly, the words feeling like a betrayal. “There’s money I could access, but…”
“I know, honey… but?” My mother tilts her head.
“As soon as I access any of those accounts, he’ll find me.
And I’m not ready for that conversation.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” The guilt sits heavy in my chest, knowing I could ease our financial strain with a simple bank transfer, knowing that Mom is stretching every dollar while I sit on a small fortune I’m too terrified to touch.
Mom reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Despite their roughness, they’re warm and steady. “You don’t have to make any decisions right now. Just focus on staying healthy.”
“That’s the problem.” I pull my hand away and stand, pacing to the window that overlooks the parking lot. “I need to work. I need money. I can’t keep living off your savings—”
“Ilona—”
“No, Mom. I’ve neglected my social media business completely. I have maybe three clients left, and they’re probably ready to fire me. I need something stable, something that won’t stress me out.” I turn back to her. “I can’t just sit around all day. I need a job.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but she knows me too well. Once I’ve made up my mind about something, there’s no talking me out of it.
“What kind of job?”
“I don’t know yet. Something easy. Something that won’t require heavy lifting or long hours on my feet.” I touch my stomach lightly. “Dr. Martinez said I need to be careful about physical stress.”
“I could always—” she begins, and I know where this is going; she’s going to offer to sell something, to make a plan.
“I’m not taking charity from anyone,” I cut her off. “Not even you.”
Mom sighs and picks up her coffee again. “You’re just like your father. Stubborn as a mule.”
The comparison stings, cutting deeper than she probably intended. I miss him so much sometimes it feels like drowning. Miss his terrible jokes and the way he’d ruffle my hair when I was stressed. Miss having someone who understood my need for independence without making me feel guilty about it.
I miss having a father who wasn’t murdered by the man I fell in love with.
I shake off the spiral before it can drag me under. “I’m going to look online today. See what’s available.”
“Just… be careful, okay? Don’t take the first thing you find.”
“Don’t worry.” I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo. “I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, baby.”
After she leaves for her morning shift at the office building downtown, I settle cross-legged on the living room floor with my laptop balanced on the coffee table.
The apartment feels too quiet without her bustling around, making it impossible to ignore the weight of everything I need to figure out.
Almost three hours into scrolling through job listings, and I want to cry. Retail positions that require standing for eight hours. Waitressing jobs that involve carrying heavy trays. Office work that pays barely above minimum wage.
I’m about to close the laptop in frustration when something catches my eye.
Immediate Start: Temporary live-in babysitter needed for one-year-old child. Excellent compensation. Flexible schedule. Must be comfortable with travel.
The salary listed makes me blink twice. It’s more than I made in three months at my last real job.
My finger hovers over the phone number. It’s probably too good to be true. Rich families usually want someone with extensive experience, references, a background check. I have none of those things.
But desperation makes people brave, and I’m definitely desperate.
What is there to lose?
Just do it, Ilona.
I dial before I can start second-guessing myself.
“Hello?” The voice is crisp, professional, with just a hint of an accent I can’t place.
“Hi, My name is Ilona and I’m calling about the babysitting position.”
“Oh, wonderful. I just put that add up; I never expected to hear from anyone so quickly.”
“Um… well… I… I… guess I got lucky,” I fumble for words.
She chuckles. “Maybe you did.” There’s warmth in her voice now, which surprises me. “Tell me a little about yourself.”
My mouth goes dry. Aside from that disastrous mess with Tibor, I haven’t done a job interview in over a year, and I’m out of practice. “Well, I’m… I’m twenty-six. I don’t have formal childcare experience, but I’ve always been good with kids. I’m responsible, reliable, and I really need a job.”
Smooth, Ilona.
Real professional.
But the woman laughs, and it’s not unkind. “Honesty. I appreciate that. What’s your situation? Are you available to start immediately?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes.” I close my eyes, trying to channel some confidence. “I’m currently living with my mother, but I’m looking for something more stable. The live-in aspect is actually perfect for me.”
“And you’re comfortable with travel?”
“Travel sounds amazing,” I say, and for the first time in weeks, I actually mean something I’m saying. The idea of leaving this cramped apartment, of putting distance between myself and all the memories in this city, feels like oxygen to drowning lungs.
“What about references?” she asks.
“Oh, that would be no problem,” I say quickly, knowing I can count on Jason for this. “My previous position was with the Boston Police Department, and—”
“You worked for the police department?” she says, her interest obviously piqued.
“Yes. I was the assistant to the police chief,” I tell her. “I’m sure he’d be happy to give you a reference for me.” I keep my fingers crossed, hoping that Jason will be able to say the kind of things a prospective child care client would want to hear.
“Excellent. Our little boy just turned one, and my husband and I have businesses that require frequent travel, sometimes for weeks at a time. We have homes in several countries, so you’d be moving around quite a bit.”
Several countries. Jesus. These people must be loaded.
“That sounds… exciting,” I manage.
“Would you be available to meet in person? Today, if possible? I know it’s short notice, but we’re quite eager to get someone in place. We have a trip planned soon, and the sooner we can have someone to start, the better.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Today works perfectly.”
She gives me an address in Back Bay, the wealthy neighborhood confirming my suspicions about their status, and I write it down with shaking hands. After we hang up, I stare at the phone for a long moment.
This could be it. This could be my way out, my chance to start over somewhere new. Somewhere Osip could never find me.
I touch my stomach again, imagining the tiny life growing inside me. “What do you think, little one? Ready for an adventure?”
The baby doesn’t answer, of course. But for the first time since I left Boston, I feel something that might actually be hope.
Now I just have to not screw this up.