18. Ana
ANA
Morning comes the way it always does in the city, gray light pressing in through the windows. It feels watchful even when it’s still.
Mila doesn’t notice any of that. She’s already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed, talking about the sea. Her face shines. Her eyes are bright.
“Are we going to the sea, Mommy?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, and I don’t get the rest out before she’s already running from one room to another, picking up a toy or a scarf and asking if we’re taking it. Her things are packed at last in her pink satchel with silver stars and little mermaids, and she shoulders it like it’s part of the adventure.
The ring catches the light when I reach for Mila’s jacket. It feels unfamiliar on my hand, a weight I chose instead of one given to me.
I’ve stood beside a man before and learned what that cost. This time, I stepped into it knowing exactly who would see it and what it would signal. I’m not a vacancy anymore. Anyone who wants to test that will have to show their hands now.
We’re leaving the city, heading for the coast. I did that before. The difference now is that I’m not disappearing. This city keeps too many eyes on us. Too many people know his face and mine. Every street carries history.
Out there, we start without that weight. Mila can learn her way around without me mapping exits in my head first. Dominik won’t have to walk into rooms where everyone remembers what he used to be.
I want a place where the days aren’t shaped by who might be watching.
Mila runs back to me, breathless. She asks if the water is blue all the time, if there are smooth stones instead of sand, if people really sell corn and ice cream right on the beach. She wants to know if she can fly a kite there and if she can take shells home.
I tell her yes to everything as I pack slowly, not much, but carefully.
The cash is counted once and slid back into the envelope.
The papers go into the inner pocket of my sling bag, the one I wear across my body without thinking anymore.
That bag doesn’t leave me. It never has.
It never will. I fold Mila’s sweater last, smooth it with my palm, and zip the bag shut.
I pack a light lunch for the way, a couple of boiled eggs, thick slices of smoked sausage, a small wedge of soft cheese, and a few sweet buns that hold their shape in a bag. I tuck in a thermos of hot tea and place napkins on top so no one has to worry about spills.
I take the lunch bag in one hand and Mila’s hand in the other, lock the door, and we step out into the morning.
Dominik is outside with the car. I hear the hood lift, then the sound of metal settling as he checks the oil. He wipes his hands on a rag and closes the lid with a solid thump that carries across the courtyard. He doesn’t say much. He looks around once, then nods.
We leave without ceremony. The streets thin as we head south, buildings give way to open road, and the city loosens its hold mile by mile.
Mila hums to herself in the back seat. I watch the signs change and listen to the engine settle into a steady pace.
The muscles in my face loosen and my shoulders drop a notch.
We don’t try to outrun the road. With Mila in the back seat, we keep the speed steady. We drive until the light shifts, until her questions taper off and her voice softens, then we stop for the night.
We take motels off the highway—places that smell of detergent and boiled water, with thin curtains and beds pushed close.
I wash her face in sinks that drain slowly, lay her down while Dominik checks the locks without being asked.
We eat what’s warm and filling, and she falls asleep to the sound of pipes and trucks rolling past in the dark.
Each morning, the land changes. Fields turn rough. Trees gather thicker. The sky pulls wider. We stop to stretch, refuel, and buy fruit from roadside stalls where no one asks questions. Mila counts trucks, then clouds, then just watches the road.
“How far is the sea?” she asks when we pull into a roadside cafe outside a small town.
“Not far now, baby,” I say, lifting her onto my hip.
“You’re doing well,” Dominik says, smoothing her hair back. She leans her head against me, her arms tight around my neck.
On the last day, the road bends more often than it runs straight, and the sky feels clearer. When the hills rise ahead and the light gets brighter, I know we’re close.
“I can smell the sea,” Dominik says from the driver’s seat, and he smiles.
The Lada is dust-lined, its wipers streaked from roadside washes, and the floor mats hold crumbs and wrappers from too many rushed meals.
Mila’s hair is flat on one side, her shoes are off, and her stuffed fox is upside down on the seat.
Dominik’s shirt clings to him at the collar, and my back aches from sitting too long, but we’re all smiling, even if no one says why.
Mila laughs just to hear herself. Dominik reaches for my hand. I don’t let go.
After another hour’s drive, we see them. Gulls, skimming and scattered, riding the wind near the road.
“Look, Mommy,” she says, pointing out the window. “Those birds.”
She noticed without either of us drawing her attention to it.
The approach into the town is long and uneven.
The road drops in small stages, past freight yards and half-finished buildings, then opens up into stretches of green that look almost careless after the north.
The heat changes as we drive, warmer, heavier, and when the sea finally shows itself between buildings, it doesn’t announce anything. It’s just there.
Dominik pulls into a small hotel near the edge of the city, clean, with balconies facing a road lined with palms that sit easily in the landscape.
We unload without hurry. When we step out of the car, the warmth and the salt tang settle on my skin, and I draw in a deeper breath.
Mila tilts her head and lifts her face, then grins wide, all teeth and joy.
We stay a week. Long enough for Mila to sleep through the nights without stirring at every sound. Mila learns the elevator buttons and argues that she’s old enough to press them herself. Dominik lets her win on the third day.
Then we move into a small house on the edge of town. The sea is close enough that we catch the salt in the breeze, but not so near that we hear it at night or see people heading toward it.
We choose the house ourselves. It sits on a low hill behind a simple fence, with a narrow stone path leading to the door. There’s no traffic outside, and the land opens wide in front of it.
Dominik leaves in the morning for a short shift at the local hospital. It’s small, closer to a clinic than a full hospital. He’s back before noon, smelling of disinfectant and stale coffee. His shoulders stay tight. His name is on the rota now. He signs in and out. People see him every day.
In this neighborhood, mornings repeat. The same faces at the corner shop, the same nods, the same doors opening and closing without anyone lingering. A woman with two dogs who never speaks. A man who waters his plants like it’s the last thing left to tend. No one looks too long, but they notice.
On the second day, a woman from next door brings soup in a pot wrapped in a towel. She asks how old Mila is, whether she eats well. Mila stands behind my leg, watching. I don’t push her forward.
In the evening, we walk to the park. It’s ten minutes out, with a cracked fountain that still runs and benches set too close to ignore each other. There’s a slide, two swings, a merry-go-round that groans but turns. Mila runs, climbs, calls out. She makes her own space.
I sit on a bench near the fountain. If a woman takes the seat beside me with her child, we trade a look. I call Mila. I say it’s time to go before it gets dark.
Once the door is locked and the lights are on, there’s nowhere to step aside. Every movement, every sound carries.
I hear Dominik even when he moves slowly. He doesn’t pace, but he doesn’t rest. The boards shift under his feet. He opens cupboards with care, sets things down like noise would cost him. I find myself listening for the next sound before it comes.
Mila settles faster than either of us. She pulls her chair up close to the counter while Dominik cooks, asking about the knives, the burners, and why onions make people cry.
He answers like each question needs a proper reply. He keeps himself between her and the stove without saying a word about it. When she drops a spoon, he catches it before it hits the floor. When she strays too far, his hand finds her shoulder, light, steady, guiding her but never holding her back.
I watch and feel something pull tight in my chest, and I don’t like that Mila stands so close to Dominik. When she can’t get the toothpaste cap off, she goes to him. When her sock bunches inside her boot, she lifts her foot and waits for him to fix it.
He lines everything up before he begins to cook. Nothing overlaps. Nothing spills. He’s in control. He moves through steps, keeps his hands busy. The food he makes is simple and filling. Meals are routine, not experiments. I hate how fast that routine starts to feel real.
Mila learns where to leave her shoes and where the light is best in the afternoon. She stops asking if we’re staying only for the night.
I catch myself thinking about why the cups aren’t on the lower shelf.
It bothers me how quickly we fall into patterns. I know what happens when patterns set in. They get noticed. They get logged.
At the sink, my hands in warm water, I listen for a sound out of place. The lack of it makes my pulse jump. Mila laughs in the next room, carefree in a way she never was when we were moving. Instead of calming me, I wonder who else can hear her.
I tell myself this is what we wanted. Wanting never kept me safe. Being ready did. Every time I let a day repeat without interruption, I replay it to see what I might have missed.
At the table, meals fall into the same hour every night. Dominik is always there. He picks the vegetables from the plate, arranges Mila’s food, and talks about why she should eat a salad before dessert. His fork touches the plate before every bite. I look away.
“Mila, finish your food and go to bed. Now.”
“It’s only seven,” Mila says.
“Seven’s late,” I say louder than I mean to.
“She’s fine,” Dominik says with his mouth half full.
“You don’t talk when I’m speaking to my daughter,” I snap, push my chair back, and take my plate to the sink.
“Is Mommy angry?” Mila asks.
I remind myself not to snap at Dominik when Mila is in the room. It’s getting harder by the day.
“You’re worked up,” Dominik says, settling on the sofa after Mila’s been fed, brushed, and tucked in. He reads her stories now. She asks him to. I don’t interrupt that.
I take my tea to the far end of the sofa. When Mila is asleep, Dominik dims the lights and sits beside me. He asks if we’re going shopping tomorrow. I give him half an answer. He notices.
“You don’t get to disappear in the same house,” he says. “If you need space, say it.”
“I need you to stop acting like this is forever,” I say. “We came here to breathe, not to settle in.”
He watches me for a long moment. “We breathe when the doors are locked and nothing’s pushing at them.”
“I’m not a situation you manage.”
“No,” he says, steady. “You’re the reason I don’t.”
I flip through the television, letting each channel run a few seconds before moving on. I don’t look at him.
“And you,” I say, “are leaving doors unlocked.”
He blinks, then frowns. “I locked it.”
“Not this morning. You left it on the latch. You left your jacket on the hook with your badge still clipped to it. You spoke to the neighbor about your shift.”
His mouth tightens. I don’t stop.
“She knows you work day shifts. That you’re security. You think that won’t stick?”
Dominik leans forward, elbows on knees, voice flat. “You think I forgot how to watch my back?”
“Do you?” I turn to look at him. “There was a dark sedan earlier,” I say, keeping my voice even. “It turned around twice.”
He nods once. “I saw it.”
“You’re not going to tell me what that means.”
“It means someone is watching,” he says. “Not striking.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It should make you alert,” he replies. “If they wanted us gone, we wouldn’t be eating dinner.”
He reaches for the remote. I listen for tires outside.
The next day, the car isn’t parked in the same place, but a delivery truck pulls up in the afternoon.
The man holds a clipboard and says my name wrong.
He says it again, slower, watching my face.
There’s a package I didn’t order, addressed close enough to make the point.
Dominik takes it from him without stepping fully into view and closes the door before the man can say anything else.
“Wrong delivery,” he says. “It happens all the time.”
“Is it?” I ask. I tell him it’s too early to let go.
“Someone wanted to see who answers the door,” I say. “And how fast.”
He doesn’t look at me, just stands there, thumb pressed against the folded corner of the package. He places it on the table without opening it.
He checks the lock, then checks it again. Draws the curtain halfway, pauses, then draws it the rest of the way. He doesn’t ask what I want for dinner. Doesn’t remind Mila to wash her hands before eating.
When I reach for the kettle, I hear the second bolt slide in.
After that, we don’t talk about it, but the house changes. He sleeps lightly. I wake in the night and find him sitting up, head tilted, listening. His hand rests near the edge of the bed, ready to move. Before sunrise, he checks the doors. He checks them again before Mila wakes.
With her, he stays close. At the park, he keeps a hand near her back when she climbs. He counts the steps out loud when she runs ahead. He tells her to stay where he can see her. She does.
I don’t like how little effort it takes now.
The month draws to its end when rain rolls in from the sea and drums against the roof and windows. After dinner, Mila curls up with me on the couch. Her skin feels warm through her shirt. I tell myself she’s tired, that travel and new places make children rundown.
When I lay her down, her breathing is shallow and fast. She stirs and whimpers, her forehead damp under my hand.
Dominik is on the couch, watching something with the volume kept soft so it won’t wake her. I walk over, stand in front of him.
“She’s warm,” I say.
Dominik is beside the bed in an instant. He presses his hand to her neck, then her wrist, steady and sure.
We give her water, wipe her face, and tell ourselves it will pass. The rain keeps tapping at the windows like a clock no one resets.
An hour later, Mila cries out, sudden and high, and when I lift her, she feels heavy against me. Her skin burns where my hand touches it. The thermometer doesn’t lie.
I look at Dominik. “We have to take her to a doctor,” I say.
“I know,” he says. He’s already reaching for the keys.