1. Blair
Blair
Five years later
I trace the recipe card again, triple-checking it against what I have laid out on the counter.
I don’t think I’m missing anything, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.
If I forgot something, it wouldn’t be a big deal to pivot and make something else, but I need a win tonight, even if it’s just a nice dinner.
Niko’s playing upstairs, happy and content. After an afternoon running around the park, he’s all tuckered out. If I’m lucky, he’ll fall asleep tonight without any problems, regardless of whether or not his father’s home.
The house is as clean as it’s going to get when there’s a toddler helping, I have everything I need for dinner, and it isn’t even that late yet.
I feel like a Super Mom.
It’s not enough to keep me from looking at the clock on the stove every few minutes like it’ll fix the rest of my life, but I try to savor the little wins while I can .
Evenings have a habit of creeping forward as slowly as possible before they slam into me like a brick wall, and bracing for it wears on me just as much as the hit.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath and forcing my shoulders to relax.
I can’t do anything to change what’s happening outside of this house, so I have to find a way to be grateful for the things that I can control.
The pitter-patter of little feet startles me out of my quiet meditation, making me smile. No matter how miserable I am, Niko never fails to cheer me up.
“Mama!” he cries, and the warble of his voice is enough to have me tensing all over again, whipping around to make sure he isn’t hurt. “Mama! I need help!”
For a moment, all I can do is blink at him.
He’s holding out his hands, fingers spread wide like I need help seeing what’s wrong.
His hands are stained a blue so dark it almost looks black, and the same color is smeared across his face, even streaked through his golden blond hair.
A pit opens up in my stomach, and I’m not sure if I want to laugh or cry.
If it was a bright blue, I’d at least be able to reassure myself that it’s from his markers, or maybe he got into his finger paint, something that’s washable and non-toxic. But of course the small tornado that I call my son wouldn’t do something as simple as that.
His brown eyes shimmer with unshed tears as his chin wobbles.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I soothe, pulling him against my chest. I almost regret it when I feel how wet his hands are against the back of my shirt.
“Let’s go get washed up, and we’ll figure this out, okay?
” He nods, tucking his head under my chin as I carry him toward the bathroom, taking great care to ignore the blue handprints and smears that decorate the walls along the way.
Forty-five minutes later, my plans of a nice dinner have been abandoned, and Niko’s humming happily to himself as he tears into his microwaved chicken nuggets and boxed mac and cheese.
I stare at my plate, reminding myself how much worse it could have been.
I can handle ink, but if he’d found one of Daniil’s weapons?
Through the relative peace and quiet, the sound of front door unlocking is as loud as a gunshot.
I brace myself just as Niko takes off, sprinting toward the front hall.
It doesn’t matter how many times he’s been told to wait for either Daniil or I, it’s like talking to a brick wall.
He’s too young to understand that our world is dangerous, and he’s too eager to see his father to learn caution.
Niko’s dinner is instantly forgotten, and I have to take off after him before he can try to open the door on his own.
I manage to pull him to me just before he’s able to slam into the black door, immediately wiggling to get loose as I pull him back. Experience tells me that it’s Daniil, but life’s taught me to rely on what I can see, not what I think I know.
As soon as Daniil’s through the door, he drops his briefcase and the band of tension around my chest loosens. He crouches, arms spread wide open in greeting.
“Papa!” Niko shoves back against my chest and slips free.
“Niko!” Daniil’s hair is a mess and his tie is loose, but he’s full of enthusiasm as he wraps his arms around our son, lifting him into the air.
There are matching smiles on both of their faces.
It’s their standard greeting, and it fills me with a sense of longing, just like it has every other time they see each other after a long day.
I stand at the edge of the room and swallow thickly, feeling like a voyeur as he carries Niko further into the house. It’s apparent the moment he actually notices Niko’s face, because he stops dead in his tracks, his whole body going tense. His eyes dart to me, looking almost panicked.
“Uh, hey.”
“Hey.”
He looks between Niko and me again, mouth gaping while he processes.
“Babe, why’s our son a Smurf?” Niko’s still smiling, but he’s caught off guard at the way Daniil’s frozen on the spot.
Frantic googling told me that rubbing alcohol might remove the stains, but I’m not sure I should be slathering him in it.
It was bad enough when we tried it on his hands.
It worked pretty well, but we also found a paper cut that he didn’t know about yet, and I’d rather he be blue for a while than miserable.
As it is, his hands and arms only have a slight blue hue, but his face and hair still look like he’s turning into, well, a Smurf.
My smile feels brittle as I pat Daniil on the arm, nodding toward the living room. “That’s a great question,” I say. “Why don’t we all sit down and eat while we talk about it?” Daniil nods, still staring at Niko’s face. “What do you think, baby?”
Nikolai smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. We talked while I tried to bathe him, and even though he knows it’s better if he tells Daniil what happened himself, he never wants to disappoint his dad.
When they head toward the dining room, I stop to make sure the door is locked, taking a moment to glare dolefully at it before I follow.
Daniil has pulled the glass of wine I had next to my plate in front of him, watching as Niko goes right back to his dinner. This night might have turned into a mess, but at least someone’s happy with his hobbled together meal.
“Niko, do you want to tell Papa what happened today?”
He shakes his head, guilt lining his features as he refuses to look at either of us. Daniil’s lips are pursed, and as much as I want Niko to own up to his mistakes, that might be too much for him right now. He’s still fresh off his hysterical fears that he’s going to be blue forever.
“That’s okay. We can talk about what happened when we got home from the park.”
That perks him up right away. His lingering shame is replaced with a fierce glare at Daniil, who simply takes a sip of my wine, swiping a chicken nugget off my plate without a care in the world.
“You said that when I call, you’ll answer!
” For as defeated as he was, all of Niko’s anger revitalizes him, and if Daniil didn’t look so confused, I’d laugh at them both.
Instead, I take back my wine, keeping it close.
Daniil wipes the crumbs off his fingers and looks at me for a moment before he focuses on our son.
“And unless I’m at court or in a meeting, I do. If I can, I’ll call you back. You know that.”
“But you didn’t! We called, and you never answered. ”
Daniil stiffens, face turning pale for a moment. It’s the only sign that he knows he’s fucked up before he gathers himself, pulling his phone out of his pocket and looking at all the missed notifications.
“I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “I must have forgotten to turn it back on after my meeting.” I hold back an eye roll.
It’s a fucking Saturday. There was no meeting.
I twist my ring around my finger, wishing for the millionth time that I was as stupid as he thinks I am. Niko crosses his arms in a pout.
“What does that have to do with”—Daniil gestures vaguely toward him—“all of the… blue?”
Niko goes back to poking at his plate, all his anger leaving him in a rush. “I found your paint,” he mumbles.
“What?”
“I found your paint,” he repeats, a little louder and more sure of himself. “It’s blue and has a gold sticker.”
The confusion clears from Daniil’s face and is immediately replaced with an alarmed dread. He looks at me like I have the power to change the past. “He found my fountain pen ink?” I nod, giving him a carefully practiced smile.
If I were a pettier person, maybe I’d point out that leaving out an open jar of permanent ink when we have a curious toddler is the sort of stupid that most parents learn to overcome before their kids are old enough to get into their things.
I try to school my face so Daniil can’t read my thoughts, but the way the corners of his mouth tip into a frown tells me I’m not as successful as I’d like to be .
I drain the rest of my wine.
“But it’s okay, because Mama said we’ll figure it out.” Niko nods with determination. “Right, Mama?”
“That’s right, baby.”
Daniil blinks before his shoulders fall in resignation. “Now, finish your dinner so Papa can put you to bed.” Without any further prompting, Niko’s reabsorbed in his dinosaur chicken nuggets, resuming the nonsense melody he was humming to himself.
I push my mostly untouched food toward Daniil, who pokes at it like he’s trying to figure out what to say.
“So, what’s the damage?”
I close my eyes, trying to picture everything that is going to have to be scrubbed, painted over, and replaced.
“There’s ink all over the walls outside your office, you need a new rug, your chair is a disaster, and I didn’t look too closely at your desk, but I’m willing to bet that’s stained, too.
And I hope you weren’t attached to having a white bathtub, because that’s a lost cause.
” I have a feeling we’ll be finding blue in unexpected places for years, but there’s nothing to be gained from pointing that out yet.