Chapter 18
MOLLY
Samuil and I haven’t talked for a couple of days.
I tell myself we’re both just busy, but the truth is that nothing between us is settled.
The air in the apartment feels anxious and disturbed, like a conversation paused at the wrong moment.
I keep replaying the things I said, what he said back, the way I still caved the second he touched me.
The way my body surrendered to him so quickly, even though my brain was screaming that it was the wrong thing to do.
I keep thinking we’ll have a discussion, that we’ll address it, that maybe we’ll finally iron out this issue that keeps growing between us. So when Samuil finally speaks to me again, it’s not what I expect.
He appears in the doorway of the living room while I’m straightening the throw blankets on the couch, his posture stiff, as if he can’t decide how to approach me.
“I’ve been talking to Davyd,” he says, his voice quieter than usual. “He was impressed with how you handled Anya.”
My heart gives a small, involuntary pull at her name. She’s such a special little girl, and working with her has been the most fun I’ve had since I was brought here.
Samuil shifts his weight, which is about the closest he gets to fidgeting.
“I know this is a lot to ask, but he was wondering if you’d be willing to spend a little more time with her on the days the nanny can’t manage everything.” He pauses, like he’s bracing for my rejection. “Only if you want to, of course.”
The answer comes out of me instantly. “Yes,” I say. “Of course. I’d love to.”
The relief that crosses his face is subtle, but I don’t miss it. It softens something sharp in me, and I can finally see he’s struggling with this tension just as much as I am.
“Good,” he says softly. “Davyd said she responded to you. More than she has with anyone else.”
I try not to be too pleased by that, but I can’t help the joy I feel. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It’s why I became a teacher. I want to make a difference in the lives of kids who are struggling, and I’ve somehow managed to do it even without being formally employed.
“When do you want me to start?” I ask.
“Today,” he says. “If you’re up for it.”
“I’m up for it,” I tell him, already reaching for the notebook I left on the table. “Let me put something together.”
Something shifts in the air between us. Nothing is fully repaired or even remotely healed. Maybe, somehow, it’s a little less fractured, though. Maybe there’s a way forward for us after all.
In the afternoon, I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with Anya across from me. She’s tiny and serious and watching me with those solemn eyes that seem to take in everything and give nothing back.
“Do you want to start with coloring?” I ask gently.
She doesn’t respond out loud, but she reaches for the crayons, which I take as a yes.
I pull a fresh piece of paper from the stack. She watches my hands but not my face, which is normal for kids with trauma. Eye contact can be overwhelming. I don’t push it.
As she colors, I start singing quietly. Soft, simple songs. Repetitive ones. Songs with predictable rhythms and rhymes. Children’s brains like patterns, especially when those patterns were taken from them too early.
“This old man, he played one, he played knick-knack on my thumb,” I start, singing the old nursery rhyme that’s meant to help little ones learn to count.
By the time I get all the way to ten, her coloring slows. She doesn’t look at me, but she’s listening.
I finish the song and start “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” but a little louder this time. She presses harder with the crayon, the line she’s drawing turning darker. I take that as a good sign.
When I stop singing, her hand pauses mid-stroke. She doesn’t start coloring again until I start another song. She’s listening. She likes it. So I keep going.
When I finish the last song, she doesn’t move for a full thirty seconds. Then she picks up a different crayon, settles into a calmer posture, and starts a brand-new picture.
It’s progress. Small, sure, but undeniable.
The next day, she comes back. When she sees me, she hesitates in the doorway for a moment. Her fingers curl around her father’s sleeve.
I stay where I am, letting her choose the pace.
“Hi, Anya,” I say softly. “I’m happy you’re here again.”
Something in her face flickers. She steps inside.
Davyd’s eyes look tired but grateful. He mouths a thank-you at me before slipping out and leaving us alone.
This time, I bring out a simple set of finger puppets I had delivered. They’re common animals made out of felt. They aren’t too stimulating or bright. I put one on my finger and make it wave hello. She watches it closely, with her chin tucked against her shoulder.
I start singing “This Old Man” again, using the finger puppet to do a little dance. She looks at the puppet, then at my mouth. She inches closer by a fraction. Another good sign.
We color again. She doesn’t make a peep, but she stays close enough that our knees almost touch. At one point, she presses a red crayon into my hand like she wants me to use it too. I do.
By the third day, she walks straight to the rug and sits down without waiting for me to invite her. That alone might make me cry if I’m not careful.
“Do you want to try a song together?” I ask after we get settled with our crayons and papers.
She keeps coloring. I take that as a maybe.
I start singing again, slow and deliberate. I over-enunciate certain sounds so she can see the shape of my mouth. When I finish, I start again, same pacing, same tone, same emphasis. I become a metronome. Repetition teaches safety.
Halfway through the fourth verse, I deliberately sing the wrong word. Anya freezes. Her head lifts and she narrows her eyes a bit. She looks straight at me, eyes questioning, confused, alert. I smile innocently.
“Oh,” I say, tapping my temple. “Did I mess that up?”
She stares for another second, then nods. My heart flutters in my chest. This is huge. This is the most communication I’ve gotten from her. I clap once, quietly so I don’t scare her.
“Good job,” I whisper. “You noticed.”
Her eyes grow wide, like no one has praised her in a long time. Maybe no one has.
I try again with another wrong word in the song. She points. Just a little. A tiny gesture. But it’s directed at me.
“You heard it,” I say softly. “That was very smart.”
She presses her lips together like she’s holding something inside, like she wants to say something. I’m not a professional speech therapist by any means, but I start to hope she might actually speak to me.
On the sixth day, everything changes. We’re on the rug, coloring again. I’m singing the rhyme from earlier, letting the melody fill the space in a way that feels safe and predictable. She’s closer than usual today, leaning against me. She’s humming along with me very quietly, just the tune.
I pretend I don’t hear it because reacting too soon might shut her down. I wait three verses, then I stop halfway through a line. Anya freezes. She looks at me, the same way she did when I messed up a few days ago. Her brows knit in frustration, like she wants the pattern to continue.
She lifts her chin and hums the missing note. It’s a single, shaky sound. My throat tightens, and I have to carefully arrange my face so I don’t betray the emotion I’m feeling. I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“That’s right,” I whisper. “Perfect.”
She stares at me as if waiting for my reaction, and when she sees how gentle it is, how soft my smile is, she relaxes. She hums again. This time a little louder. I feel my eyes sting, and I have to blink fast to keep the tears at bay.
“You’re doing so well,” I breathe.
She hums every time I pause after that. By the time the session ends, she’s basically in my lap. She feels safe with me.
Over the next week, we build on everything she’s learned. I bring out books with repetitive phrases and songs that repeat lines three times. I establish a routine with her that’s the same every single day to help build her confidence and trust.
She eventually begins humming by herself.
She hands me crayons now instead of waiting for me to choose.
She smiles at least twice every day. She’s much more physically open, often leaning on me or pushing herself into my lap.
She doesn’t hug me or even give me high-fives, but I give her the space to lead with whatever makes her most comfortable.
Then, on a Wednesday afternoon about three weeks after I start watching her, we’re singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” together. Well, I’m singing and she’s humming, watching my hands as I do little motions to the song. And, as usual, I purposely drop a word.
“Up came the,” I sing, waiting for her to hum the note.
She hesitates, her little mouth moving soundlessly. And then, quietly, she whispers, “Sun.”
My heart stops. My hands fly to my mouth. Tears immediately spring to my eyes. I try so hard not to startle her with how emotional I feel.
“That was amazing,” I say softly. “Anya, that was incredible.”
She blinks at me, confused by the shine in my eyes, but she doesn’t pull away. When I get her settled with a coloring sheet, I pull out my phone and type to Samuil with shaking fingers.
She said a word.
He responds almost immediately.
That’s incredible. I knew this was a good idea.
By the time Davyd comes to get her, she’s humming full verses of the songs. When I stop singing, she fills in the word “sun” each time. Her father steps into the living room and freezes.
She doesn’t notice him at first. She’s too busy scooting closer to me so she can see the pictures in the book we’re reading.
When she does notice him, she doesn’t retreat. She doesn’t hide. She doesn’t run behind anything. She simply looks up and says, quiet but clear, “Sun.”
Davyd collapses into a chair like someone pulled the bones out of him. His hands cover his face. I don’t say anything. I don’t move. I just sit with Anya leaning against my side while her father tries to get his breathing under control. When he finally looks at me, tears run down both cheeks.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”
I swallow hard, my own tears threatening again. “It wasn’t me,” I say. “She was just ready.”
He shakes his head, overcome. “No one has reached her since my wife died. No one.”
He hugs his daughter, crying openly into her hair while she hums the song we practiced. I look away so I don’t intrude on the moment, but it’s impossible not to absorb what it feels like. What healing looks like. What love sounds like.
What a family can be, even when it’s hurting.