Five Years Later
Lily
The house is chaos.
Baby Nika is in her highchair, methodically dropping cereal on the floor one piece at a time and watching it fall with serious concentration.
At one, she's the only one who got a mix—Leonid's lighter coloring with wispy brown hair, and eyes that can't decide if they're blue or green depending on the light.
And I'm standing at the stove making pancakes while simultaneously trying to prevent anyone from dying.
"Vera Morozova, if you knock over that lamp one more time!"
"He started it!"
"I don't care who started it. Walk. In the house."
She slows to a theatrical walk, shooting her three-year-old brother a look that promises retribution the moment I turn my back.
God, she's so much like her father.
Leonid appears in the kitchen doorway, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a henley that does unreasonable things to his shoulders. Even after five years of marriage and three—almost four—kids, the sight of him still makes my stomach flip.
"Papa!" Sasha abandons his pursuit of his sister and launches himself at Leonid's legs. "Vera won't share!"
"Sharing is important," Leonid says gravely, scooping him up. "What isn't she sharing?"
"The good crayons."
"Ah. A serious offense." He carries Sasha to the table, deposits him in his chair. "We'll discuss proper crayon distribution after breakfast. For now—" He looks at Vera. "Share."
"But Papa!"
"Vera."
One word. That's all it takes. Vera sighs dramatically and goes to retrieve the coveted crayons.
Leonid crosses to me, slides his arms around my waist from behind, and rests his chin on my shoulder. His hands settle on my belly—round now, six months along with number four.
"Good morning," he murmurs against my neck.
"Morning." I lean back into him. "Your children are feral."
"My children?"
"When they're feral, they're yours. When they're angels, they're mine."
He laughs, low and warm, and I feel it vibrate through me. "Fair enough. What time is Viktor arriving?"
"Around eleven. Isabella said Sofia has been talking about seeing Vera for weeks."
"Sofia is ten now?"
"Ten going on thirty, according to Isabella." I flip a pancake. "And Miron is seven. He's apparently going through a phase where he wants to be exactly like his father, which is terrifying everyone."
"Viktor must be thrilled."
"Viktor is apparently teaching him knife throwing."
"Sounds right."
***
By eleven, the house is marginally less chaotic.
The children have been fed, dressed in clothes that mostly match, and threatened with consequences if they misbehave in front of guests.
Nika is down for her morning nap. I've managed to shower and put on an actual dress—maternity, but still cute—and Leonid has made coffee strong enough to wake the dead.
The doorbell rings, and Vera bolts for it before anyone can stop her.
"Sofia!"
The door flies open to reveal Viktor Morozov—Leonid's cousin, equally massive, equally terrifying, equally capable of killing a man twelve different ways—carrying a bakery box and wearing an expression of patient resignation.
Behind him, Isabella is trying to wrangle Miron, who is already asking if Uncle Leonid has any cool weapons he can see. Sofia steps inside more calmly, then spots Vera and her whole face softens.
"Hi, little one," she says, crouching down. "I brought you something." She pulls a hair ribbon from her pocket—sparkly, pink. Vera's eyes go wide.
"For me?"
"For you. Want me to put it in your hair?"
Vera nods frantically and grabs Sofia's hand, dragging her toward her room. Sofia shoots me an amused look over her shoulder—ten going on thirty, just like Isabella said.
"She listens to me about as well as her mother does," Viktor tells Leonid, watching Miron disappear into the house.
"I heard that," Isabella calls, herding Miron inside. She spots me and her face lights up. "Lily! Look at you—you're glowing."
"I'm sweating. It's ninety degrees and I'm enormous."
"You're beautiful." She hugs me carefully around my belly. "Four kids. You're a braver woman than me."
"Or crazier."
"Both. Definitely both." She pulls back, grinning. "Though we're talking about number three, so maybe I'll catch up."
Viktor makes a sound that might be approval or might be terror. With him, it's hard to tell.
The afternoon unfolds the way family gatherings should.
The kids spread out in the backyard. Sofia has set herself up on a blanket with Vera, patiently teaching her some clapping game while Vera giggles and messes up the rhythm. Sasha trails after Miron with naked hero worship.
"Show me! Show me!" Sasha demands, bouncing on his toes.
"You're too little," Miron says, but he's already looking around for something to demonstrate with.
"Miron." Viktor's voice cuts across the yard. "No knives. We talked about this."
"But Papa—"
"No."
Miron sighs with the weight of the world and settles for showing Sasha how to do a proper combat roll instead. Sasha attempts it, faceplants into the grass, and comes up laughing.
Viktor shakes his head but I catch the ghost of a smile.
Nika toddles over to where Leonid is sitting, demands "Up," and is immediately lifted onto his lap. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and watches her siblings with solemn interest.
"She's got your eyes," Isabella says, settling into the chair next to me with a glass of lemonade.
"And his temperament, unfortunately. Already giving me looks that could kill."
"Sofia was the same at that age. Now she's ten and thinks she's everyone's mother." Isabella watches her daughter, who is now letting Vera put clips in her hair—sitting perfectly still while the five-year-old makes a mess of it. "She told Viktor last week that she wants to learn to shoot."
"What did he say?"
"That she has to master hand-to-hand first." Isabella rolls her eyes. "They're already doing drills in the backyard. My daughter can disarm a grown man, but sure, let's add firearms."
I laugh. "Leonid tried to teach Vera chess as a 'strategic thinking exercise.' She's five. She just likes knocking the pieces over."
"They can't help themselves. Everything's training to them."
We watch Viktor intercept Miron, who has found a stick and is showing Sasha the "correct" way to hold a weapon. Viktor confiscates the stick, says something quiet, and Miron droops.
"He's been obsessed with being like Viktor lately," Isabella says. "Follows him everywhere. Wants to know everything about 'Papa's work.' We've had to get creative with explanations."
"What do you tell him?"
"That Papa helps keep people safe. That sometimes that means making hard decisions." She shrugs. "It's not untrue."
Sofia appears at her mother's elbow, Vera trailing behind her clutching a stuffed animal. "Mama, can I babysit Vera sometime? I'm old enough now."
"We'll talk about it."
"You always say that."
"Because it's always true." Isabella smooths Sofia's hair. "Go play, solnyshko."
Sofia sighs—a perfect teenage sigh despite being only ten—and takes Vera's hand to lead her back to the other kids.
"I still can't believe it sometimes," Isabella says, watching her go. "Viktor Morozov, teaching our son to ride a bike. Braiding our daughter's hair. Making pancakes on Saturday mornings." She shakes her head. "If you'd told me seven years ago this was where we'd end up..."
"I know." I watch Leonid emerge from the house with a tray of drinks, Sasha immediately abandoning Miron to run to him. "I was on an auction block five years ago. Thought my life was over. And now..."
I gesture at the yard. The chaos. The noise. The life.
"He still looks at you the same way," Isabella says. "Viktor does too, with me. Like they still can't believe we're real."
"They spent a long time convincing themselves they didn't need this. Hard habit to break."
"Good thing we're patient."
She clinks her glass of sparkling water against mine.
***
That night, after Viktor and Isabella have taken their exhausted children home, after our own kids are bathed and storied and tucked into beds they'll inevitably escape from at least twice, Leonid and I stand in the doorway of the nursery.
It's ready. Has been for months—Leonid insisted, just like he insisted with all of them. Soft green walls. A white crib with a mobile of silver stars. A rocking chair by the window where I'll nurse at 3 AM and he'll sit with me because he never lets me do the hard parts alone.
"Three months," I say, hand on my belly.
"Three months." His arm wraps around me, pulling me close. "And then we do it all again."
"Are you tired of it yet? The chaos. The noise. The never sleeping."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Before you, I used to hate this time of night. Too quiet. Nothing but my own head." He turns me to face him, tips my chin up. "Now I can't wait for it. The kids asleep, the house settled. Just us."
"Even when Sasha puts his sister in a headlock?"
"Especially then. He's got good form."
I laugh, and he pulls me closer, kisses the top of my head.
"Remember my vision boards?" I say against his chest. "The pictures I used to save?"
"The nurseries. The family dinners. The little girl in the tutu."
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything about you." His hand strokes my hair. "You showed me those pictures and I thought—I'm going to give her all of it. Whatever it takes."
"You did."
"Not done yet." He pulls back, looks at me. "Got at least another forty years of promises to keep."
"Forty?"
"I'm planning to live to ninety out of spite."
I smile. "That tracks."
His hand finds my belly again, and the baby kicks—hard enough that we both feel it.
"Strong," he says.
"Like her father."
"Her?"
"I have a feeling."
He grins. "I'm usually the one with the feelings about that."
"Maybe I'm learning."
We stand there for another moment, his hand on the baby, mine over his. Then I take his fingers and lead him toward the bedroom.
"I thought you wanted to rest," he says, but he's already following.
"I want you. Then rest."
"In that case."
He closes the nursery door behind us and follows me down the hall.
THE END