Chapter Nine #2
On the screen, I see him stir, little legs kicking against his sleep sack.
His eyes flutter open— eyes that seem too knowing for a baby— and he rubs them with tiny fists before looking around his room with the confused expression of someone trying to remember where they are.
There’s something almost heartbreaking about the way he pauses, like he’s listening for voices that aren’t coming.
I don’t want him to feel alone when he fully wakes up.
The thought propels me up the stairs, my footsteps muffled by carpet so thick it feels like walking on clouds.
The hallway is lined with more art, more expensive furniture that no one ever uses.
The second door on the right opens to reveal a nursery that looks like something from a magazine— perfectly coordinated colors, expensive furniture arranged with mathematical precision, toys that still have their tags.
It’s beautiful. It’s also sterile as a hospital room.
Slava is sitting up in his crib now, still clutching his teddy bear. When he sees me, his face lights up with a smile so immediate and genuine that it takes my breath away. It’s like sunrise breaking through clouds— pure, unfiltered joy at seeing another human being.
“Good morning, little one,” I whisper, approaching his crib slowly.
The feeling hits me again— that strange sense of recognition, like we’ve known each other longer than the brief meeting yesterday.
My hand moves instinctively to my belly, where my own little secret is growing.
The pregnancy hormones must be making me more emotional, more maternal.
Making me see connections that aren’t really there.
That has to be it.
Slava pulls himself up to standing, wobbling slightly on unsteady legs.
His dark hair is mussed from sleep, sticking up in adorable tufts that make him look like a tiny cartoon character.
He falls back onto his diaper-padded bottom with a soft thump, then immediately tries again, this time reaching his small arms toward me and babbling something in his own private language.
“You want out of there, don’t you?” I ask, lifting him from the crib.
He feels so solid and warm in my arms, smelling like baby powder and innocence and something else I can’t identify—something that makes my chest ache with familiarity. His weight settles against me perfectly, like he belongs there.
“Ma-ma-ma,” he babbles, patting my cheek with one small hand.
“Oh, sweetie, I’m not mama. I’m Ilona. Can you say Ilona?” I sink onto the floor and sit cross-legged on the soft nursery rug, placing him in front of me.
“I-lo,” he responds, which is close enough to make me smile.
“That’s right, I-lo. I’ll be your I-lo for a while.”
He immediately begins his baby exploration routine— crawling a few steps away from me, then looking back to make sure I’m still there.
It’s like he’s testing the boundaries, seeing if I’ll disappear like everyone else in his life apparently does.
When he spots a colorful ring stacker, he makes a beeline for it, his determination both hilarious and endearing.
He grabs it, shakes it with surprising strength, then promptly tries to eat it.
“No, no, baby. Like this.” I show him how to stack the rings, but he’s more interested in banging them against the floor, delighting in the noise they make. Each thump echoes through the quiet room, and his laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest.
As we play, my mind drifts to dangerous territory— thoughts of the family I could have had. The baby growing inside me. The father who will never know about either of us. If things had been different. If he hadn’t—
What the fuck, girl?
What the hell are you thinking?
He killed your father!
I push the thoughts away violently, but they leave a residue of sadness that’s hard to shake.
My throat tightens, and I have to blink several times to clear my vision.
I think about the baby growing inside me, about whether I’ll even make it past the critical twelve-week mark.
The statistics flash through my mind— all the things that can go wrong, all the ways this tiny hope inside me might disappear.
The uncertainty tightens around my heart, making it hard to draw breath.
Slava must sense my shift in mood because he stops playing and crawls back to me, settling quietly on the rug with his teddy bear pressed against his chest. His gray eyes— so different from Elena’s ice blue and Leonid’s brown— study my face with an intensity that seems too mature for his age.
It’s like he understands the thoughts that haunt me, like he recognizes the sadness that threatens to pull me under. There’s something in his gaze that reminds me of—
No. I’m being ridiculous. Pregnancy hormones and maternal instincts, nothing more.
“You’re a special little boy, aren’t you?” I whisper, reaching out to smooth his hair.
He leans into my touch, and something in my chest shifts and settles.
Whatever happens with my own pregnancy, whatever complicated feelings I have about the father, whatever darkness lurks in my future— this little boy needs someone to see him, to love him, to be present with him in a way his parents clearly aren’t.
I already love him. The realization should scare me, but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“We’ll definitely be more than fine for two weeks,” I tell him softly, and for the first time since taking this job, I truly believe it.
Slava responds by crawling into my lap, snuggling against me with complete trust. His small body fits perfectly in my arms, and my heart melts all over again. Whatever else happens, I’ll make sure this little boy knows what it feels like to be loved.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper against the top of his head, breathing in that sweet baby scent. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“Ma-ma…” his tiny voice comes from against my chest, muffled but clear.
“No, baby. I-lo…” For some reason, I find myself brushing away a stray tear that leaked from the corner of my eye.
Ugh.
Stupid pregnancy hormones.
But as I hold this beautiful, abandoned little boy, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe we need each other more than either of us knows.