Chapter 37
Zoya
The living room is quiet except for the clinking of teacups, with pastries laid out on the table between us. My mom is giving me that look - the one that tells me she’s already decided I’m in the wrong about something.
“You look tired,” she says, her eyes scanning my face.
“I’m fine, Mama, really.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Are you sleeping? Are you eating enough?”
I nod, trying to keep my patience. “Yes, I’m sleeping, and yes, I’m eating. I’m fine.”
Yelena shifts and jumps in before my mom can ask another question. “How was your appointment today?”
I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders. “It was good. The baby is healthy, my iron levels are up, and my blood pressure is normal.”
Anya reaches over and squeezes my hand. “That’s great, Zoya.”
“The doctor also cleared me for light activities,” I continue, watching my mom’s face carefully. “So I told Alexei that I want to go back to the university.”
Not a flicker of emotion crosses her face. “So?”
I look down at my hands. “He said no.”
No one says anything for a long moment. Then my mom sets down her teacup. “Well, of course, he refused. You’re carrying his child, and you almost died half a month ago. Why on earth would he agree to that?”
“I’m completely fine now. The doctor signed off on it, and sitting for lectures isn’t going to hurt the baby or me.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “Who cares what that quack says. You’re his wife and carrying his heir, you need to be here where you’re safe.
I feel heat spreading up from my collar. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. I can take care of myself and the baby while also continuing my education.”
She picks up her teacup. “If you could manage both, you wouldn’t have gotten yourself shot at and flipped in a car, would you?”
“I didn’t cause that. I wasn’t the one shooting at us or driving the other car.”
My mother sets her teacup down and fixes me with a stare.
“Oh, Zoya, even while growing up, you never accepted blame. Not even when you were in the wrong. Did you or did you not insist on going to that neighborhood, hence drawing attention to yourself? And then what happened? You got shot at. You nearly lost your baby. How is that not your fault?”
“Except I didn’t. The baby’s fine and so am I.”
“Sheer dumb luck, nothing else.” She could be discussing the weather for all the emotions on her face. “Luck is finite. Alexei learned that lesson a long time ago, which is exactly why he’s insisting you stay home now.”
I hug my arms to my chest. “Let’s call it what it is. He’s not keeping me home for safety. He’s keeping me here because he wants to control me.”
She settles deeper into the cushions, examining me the way you’d examine an insect you found on the sidewalk. “Or is this just the first time someone told you no, and you can’t handle it?”
“You’re being deliberately unfair right now,” I argue, hating that I am being spoken to in this manner.
“The unfair thing is creating problems for your husband when he’s already dealing with keeping you and your baby safe.” She raises the cup, sipping carefully. “Which brings me to my next question. How are you and Alexei getting along?”
The question catches me off guard, and I stammer, “What do you mean?”
“I’m asking about your marriage. Are you and Alexei in a good place right now?”
“Everything’s fine. Why are you asking?”
One slow tilt of her head and she’s got me pinned. “You’re certain?” I can’t form a response. Several seconds pass before she speaks again. “I want a real answer now. When did Alexei last fuck you?”
Warmth explodes across my face, and I notice Yelena suddenly finding the ceiling very interesting while Anya sits there looking absolutely shocked. My mother has always been literal when it comes to her words. So I don’t know why this shocked me.
I look pointedly at Yelena, then Anya, before turning back to my mother. “You’re really going to ask me about my sex life in front of company?”
My mom’s hands stay folded in her lap, completely unbothered. “There’s nothing complicated about what I’m asking. Tell me when.”
I swallow hard, feeling the words stick in my throat. “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks.” She nods slowly, absorbing this information. “Before the dry spell started, how often were the two of you sleeping together?”
I pick at the edge of my shirt. “Before the accident, we were having sex daily. Some days multiple times.”
She leans forward slightly. “So you went from constant sex to three weeks of celibacy. Walk me through what happened.”
“I’m not sure. Once we got home from the hospital, he just lost interest.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Nothing? No physical contact whatsoever?”
“He’s not entirely hands-off. He’ll give me orgasms with his mouth and fingers. But when it comes to actually fucking me? He refuses.” This is possibly the most embarrassing conversation I’ve ever had.
Anya’s fidgeting now, unable to sit still, and Yelena might as well be a statue for how motionless she’s become. Not even a flicker crosses her face.
“What are you doing on your end to make yourself appealing to him?”
I sit up straighter, crossing my arms. “I don’t understand the question. I haven’t done anything to push him away.”
“Let me be more specific,” my mother motions. “What do you have on when you get into bed at night? How do you look when he sees you?”
My gaze falls, and I study my fingernails while something sick and guilty churns inside me. I can’t look at her anymore, so I focus on my hands instead, that familiar guilt twisting through my stomach. “Comfortable stuff mostly. Soft pants, oversized shirts, things that don’t press on my belly.”
“Comfortable,” she echoes, and somehow makes it sound like an insult. “Be more specific.”
I pick at a thread on my sweater. “Cotton pants with drawstrings. Old t-shirts from him. Things that don’t have waistbands cutting into me.”
She leans back against the sofa, and I watch her eyes travel over me from head to toe. “What I’m hearing is that you’ve stopped caring about how you look to your husband.”
My hands fly up in frustration. “I’m in my first trimester, I can barely stay awake past eight PM, and you want me to prioritize looking fuckable over not wanting to claw my skin off?”
She picks up her tea again, taking a measured sip before continuing. “Alexei is still a man with physical needs and visual preferences. When you look like you’ve completely checked out, you can’t be surprised that he has too.”
“If he loves me, my clothes shouldn’t matter. He should want me regardless.” My hands ball into fists against my thighs.
The word barely leaves my mouth before she’s talking over me, her hand slicing through the air. “Should. That word doesn’t mean anything in a marriage. You can talk about 'what should be' all you want. But the reality is different. The reality is the need for you to put in effort.”
“I do put in effort. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m trying to make this work.” My voice rises despite my best attempts to stay calm.
“Effort?” She leans forward again, and I can see the judgment written all over her face.
“Really? Because from where I’m sitting, you’re wearing clothes that do nothing for you, complaining about your beautiful home, and fighting your husband at every turn.
” The silence stretches for three heartbeats.
“What part of that makes you desirable?”
The air leaves my body all at once. “You’re twisting everything I said.”
Her expression remains neutral. “Are you sure about that? I was pregnant and still managed to be a wife your father wanted to come home to. I put on lipstick. I wore dresses. I made sure he felt desired.” She shifts her weight, settling deeper into the cushions. “And he never thought about cheating.”
“Good for you.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Congratulations on being a 1950s housewife. Do you want a medal?”
“You’re lucky Alexei loves you as much as he does,” she continues, her voice still calm and matter-of-fact, “You’re lucky he’s not the type to find satisfaction elsewhere when his wife stops trying.
” She reaches for a pastry, breaks off a small piece, but doesn’t eat it.
“But I suggest you start dressing better and making an effort. Because as your pregnancy grows, so does your weight. If you don’t watch it now, you’ll balloon. ”
Yelena breaks her silence with a sharp intake of breath. “You cannot be serious right now.”
She continues as if Yelena never interrupted, still focused entirely on me.
“You’re already quite thick, Zoya. Sure, he likes it now.
But keep eating the way you are, letting him indulge every craving, and you might get bigger.
” Finally, she spares Yelena a glance. “Men tolerate a lot, but not everything.”
Yelena stands up halfway before catching herself, her thighs lifting off the cushion. “Are you listening to yourself? Do you hear how toxic that is?”
My mom’s eyebrows lift slightly, the only sign she’s even registered Yelena’s anger. “The truth isn’t always kind, or would you prefer I lie to her?”
Yelena’s voice climbs higher, and she gestures wildly between my mother and me. “Help? You call that help? You just told her she’s getting too fat to fuck.”
“I expect her to take care of herself and not use pregnancy as an excuse to let herself go.” My mom’s voice doesn’t rise to meet Yelena’s anger, staying level and controlled while she straightens the magazines on the coffee table.
Yelena moves into my mom’s space, her shadow falling across the older woman. “She almost died three weeks ago. She’s traumatized. And you’re worried about her fucking weight?”
My mom remains seated, looking up at Yelena with infuriating calm while she straightens her skirt over her knees. “You can be angry with me all you want. But ignoring the problem won’t make her marriage better.”
I try to say something, anything, but part of me wonders if she’s right. My hand moves to cover my mouth.