Chapter 25
Mia
The drive out to St. Albans to see Anya, Katya’s mother, is long and quiet.
Katya doesn’t talk much, which isn’t like her. But then, grief rewires you—turns even the loudest people into shadows of themselves.
I glance over. Her knuckles are white around the steering wheel, her mouth pulled tight. There’s a weariness to her I’ve never seen before.
“Want me to drive?” I offer gently.
She shakes her head. “No. I need something to do.”
The last half hour is spent in silence, save for the soft hum of the tires on the highway and the occasional sniffle from Katya.
Yesterday, the doctor told us that the disease has progressed to its final stage—Anya’s brain is beginning to forget how to regulate essential functions like swallowing and breathing.
It’s only a matter of weeks now.
When we pull into the Maple Glen Assisted Living Facility, I can see the shift in her posture—the way her shoulders steel themselves, and her chin lifts just a little. This is her ‘daughter armor’.
I don’t wear it as well as she does—but I wear another one, that of being her friend. Only one of us is allowed to break down at a time. So, when we leave Anya, I will be the stronger one.
Anya was elegance and softness, armored in the fierce devotion of a mother.
When we were in high school, she used to bring us hot chocolate, and she always remembered that I liked mine with a dash of cinnamon.
She cried when I got into UVM, and hugged me like I was her own when I lost my parents in that terrible car crash sophomore year.
She raised me, took care of me. She and Ivan were my second chance, my bonus parents.
It’s not easy to see her like this—but she’s still with us, and I cling to that.
The nurses greet us kindly, gently, like they’ve already started to prepare us to say goodbye.
Anya is in a recliner near the window, a blanket pulled over her legs. Her eyes are closed, and for a second, panic seizes my heart.
“She’s just resting,” the nurse reassures us. “She’s had a peaceful morning.”
Katya crouches beside her mother and touches her hand. “Hi, Mama. It’s me.”
Anya’s eyes flutter open. Cloudy…but warm. “Katyenka,” she whispers. “And my Mia.” She looks at me and smiles.
Katya lets out a soft, tearful laugh at the old nickname. “That’s right, Mama. Your girls are here.”
I kneel beside Katya, my throat tight. “Hi, Anya.”
Her gaze shifts slowly between us, and for one shining, fleeting moment, it’s like she’s back—present. Not the fading echo of the sharp, brilliant woman who used to bake blueberry blinis from memory, or talk to me about taking care of myself.
Just for a heartbeat, her face lights up like it used to. Like she knows us.
“You both look tired,” she murmurs, her accent faint but still intact. “Have you been dancing all night?”
Katya nods, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You know us, Mama. We closed the place down.”
Anya chuckles, a whisper of sound. “Beautiful girls.”
Then it’s like someone turns a dimmer down. Her eyes lose focus, drifting somewhere just behind us, and her smile fades. She slumps slightly, her hand going slack in Katya’s.
The moment is gone.
Katya leans forward, brushing Anya’s hair back from her forehead. “I brought you your lotion, Mama. The rose water one.”
I take the bottle from Katya and unscrew the cap. I smooth a little onto Anya’s hands. Her skin is paper-thin and cool, but the scent fills the air like memory. She doesn’t respond, but there’s a tiny flicker in her fingers.
Maybe she feels it. Maybe she doesn’t.
Katya talks about the crocuses blooming in the garden outside, and how warm it was in Burlington last week.
I tell her about the kids at school—how one of the boys accidentally glued his sleeve to the craft table.
We pretend like she’s listening, like she’ll laugh at the funny parts and give advice at the quiet ones.
Because this is what love is, I think. Staying even when the light has dimmed. Speaking when there may be no one left to hear you. Holding on to pieces of the person you loved, even when those pieces begin to slip through your fingers.
Katya grips her mother’s hand tightly. “I love you, Mama. And Mia loves you.”
So for the next little while, we sit there. Talking. Remembering. Holding the space between who she was and who she’s become.
When Anya falls asleep, Katya excuses herself to talk to the doctor.
I sit with Anya, watching the woman who helped raise me slip further away.
“I love you,” I whisper, my hand over hers. “Thank you for loving me when I didn’t have anyone else.”
Her lips move in the faintest smile in her sleep, like she can hear me.
I drive us home because Katya is bawling. I hold her hand as I drive.
Just a few months ago, she held me together when I cried.
None of this is easy. But we have each other.
“She doesn’t have long,” Katya whimpers, clutching my hand like it’s a lifeline.
“I know,” I whisper.
“It’s fucking unfair.”
I drive, focusing on the road, keeping the tears at bay. She gets to fall apart now. It’s her turn.
“But you know what? I have you.”
“Always,” I vow.
That night, after Katya goes to bed early and I’m curled up on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea I’m not even sipping, Aiden’s text pings in.
Aiden: How are you? How is Anya?
I’d told him that I couldn’t see him on Saturday because we would be going to see Anya. I’d waited for him to say something rude, but he hadn’t; instead, he’d been kind. That had only annoyed me more.
I stare at the screen for a minute.
Me: Once when I wanted to see her, you said she isn’t even my mother, and some stupid lunch thing your mother was having was more important.
It’s not his fault that Anya is dying. It isn’t anyone’s fault, but grief needs somewhere to land, and I keep wanting to throw it at him.
He’s an easy target these days. He’s screwed up enough in the past that I can always reach back, pull out one of his old crimes, and lay it at his feet like proof that he’s the problem—even when he isn’t.
I close my eyes, feeling foolish and small.
What the hell am I doing? Why am I hurting Aiden? I love him. Still. Hurting him doesn’t make me feel better.
Aiden: I am so sorry for putting my family before yours. How is Anya?
I can’t keep doing this, throwing his sins at him. If I’m done with him, I should let him go, not keep hitting him because I’m hurt and angry. It’s unfair. And it’s wrong. And most importantly, it’s not who I am.
Just yesterday, I was listening to a podcast by a marriage counselor, and she said something that has stayed with me.
Cheating isn’t the cause of a broken marriage—it’s a symptom. It often reveals underlying disconnection, unmet needs, or emotional distance that already existed. The affair doesn’t destroy the relationship; it exposes what was already eroding.
I was complicit in the erosion of our marriage. My needs were going unmet because I didn’t voice them. I smiled through bullshit. He didn’t even know I was hurting.
The phone rings.
“I’m sorry,” I say without preamble. “I’m being unfair to you. I keep saying things and…I just….”
“Baby, it’s okay. I fucked up so much that it’s natural that you have…anger inside of you. I’d much rather you said whatever you felt, whenever you felt it, and know that it only reminds me of my wrongs, and makes me want to do and be better.”
Oh God! Here is the man I married. The man I love. The man who knows me, who loves me.
“She’s dying, Aiden.” I break, sobbing.
“Oh, baby.”
His voice is so gentle, I know there’s no agenda behind it. Just care.
“She’s not in pain. That’s something,” I choke out. “But it still hurts.”
“I was such an ass,” he says, his regret evident. “I never understood how important she was to you. How important Katya is.”
“Aiden, I—”
“I didn’t want to,” he whispers. “I was too wrapped up in keeping my family happy.”
An apology can’t erase the years I felt like a guest in my own life.
But his honesty reaches something raw in me, something tightly wound and long buried.
Maybe forgiveness isn’t a grand gesture.
Perhaps it’s just another kind of love—the silent kind that stays behind after everything else has broken.
“Aiden?”
“Baby.”
“I wish you were here.”
A beat. “You want me to come over?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to lean on you.”
And with that, I let go. I sob until I can’t breathe, until my chest aches and my throat burns.
He stays on the line. Listens. Tells me he loves me. Promises me he’ll never overlook my needs again. Vows to do better, be better—for me, for us.
I cry the whole time. Then, when I’m drained, I say goodbye and go to bed.
He sends a last message: Sleep well, baby. And call me any time you need to talk.
That night, my grief for losing Anya becomes sharper, more present, more consuming than the grief of losing Aiden.
Because somewhere, deep down, I have begun to believe I haven’t lost him. That it’s only a matter of time before we find our way back to each other. It’s the hope I dared not have, but it has wormed its way inside of me.
I’m scared of how things will turn out.
And that’s when I hear Anya’s voice in my head, how she used to comfort and advise.
“You can either be anxious or excited about the unknown. I say be excited. It’s the only way to fully live.”