Epilogue
ANTONELLA
Evgeny has negotiated with dangerous men in three languages, but he can’t persuade our daughter to release his cuff.
“Milana, that’s attached.”
She regards him solemnly before putting the fabric in her mouth. I turn away to hide my laughter, finding no better place to look than the rest of the breakfast table.
The round one we used to have has been replaced by a longer table, with high chairs around it and room for the adults who make this hour possible. Brittany sits beside Taras with his oats. Regina brings soft fruit while Janice moves the bread basket just beyond Ilya’s reach.
Almost has become a dangerous distance in this house.
It’s February, eighteen months after our wedding, and all seven children are eating breakfast under our roof. Some mornings, I count them before sitting down. Today, Saveliy is nearest me with toast in both hands, while Aleksandr tests the different sounds his spoon makes against the bowl and tray.
Taras leans toward Brittany’s spoon before she’s ready to offer it. Ilya follows the bread basket with his eyes. Across from them, Lyudmila studies her banana while Evdokia reaches for Regina, who has remembered the cup she prefers. Milana has her father, which seems to satisfy her for now.
Getting them here required specialists, a birth much earlier than we hoped and long weeks when home was somewhere we went to change clothes before returning to the hospital. They didn’t all come home together. I learned to celebrate good news without expecting it to guarantee the next piece.
Now Aleksandr strikes his bowl again, and I feel such ordinary irritation that I nearly laugh.
“Thank you. We heard the first performance.”
He looks delighted by the attention. Evgeny finally frees his cuff by offering Milana her own cloth, which she studies before dropping it over the side of the chair. He watches it fall while I butter my bread.
“Poor terms?” I ask.
“She changed them after the agreement.”
“You should have got it in writing.”
Milana slaps her tray. When he bends to kiss her head, she catches his hair, and I stop trying to conceal my laughter.
He stays bent rather than pull away, persuading her fingers open one at a time.
The patience makes me want to kiss him too, although I wait until our daughter has finished arranging him to her liking.
The bread is warm enough to melt the butter, crisp at the edge and soft underneath. I manage half before Saveliy reaches toward my plate. His own piece is directly in front of him, apparently less interesting now that I’ve enjoyed mine.
“This is mine. That look won’t work every time.”
He waits, untroubled by the warning. I break off a little piece and put it on his tray. Before Evgeny can comment, I point at his damp sleeve with what remains of my breakfast.
We eat between wiping chins and returning cups to the right places. Regina lifts Evdokia when she’s finished, settling her against one hip. Brittany replaces Taras’s empty bowl with fruit, then reminds Ilya of the food already in his hand.
Our nannies have shifts written where everyone can see them, and appointments go into a shared calendar. Some mornings, even that feels insufficient. Today, it gives me time to sit beside my husband and drink tea before it goes cold.
He passes the milk without asking. I add a little and warm my palms around the cup, grateful after a night interrupted twice by someone who decided sleep had lost its appeal. I can’t remember which waking belonged to which child until he turns toward Brittany.
“Lyudmila may be tired early. She was awake for a while last night.”
He remembers because he was there. Hearing him say it, I begin to remember too, the small weight against us and how long it took before we could lie down again. This morning, I’m pleased to let him keep track while I finish something warm.
Edith sends a photograph while I’m drinking. She’s filled the shop window with pink flowers and wants my opinion. I enlarge the left side as Saveliy quietly transfers a piece of toast to my lap.
“Work?” Evgeny asks.
“A dispute about a vase. She knows it’s too tall. She wants me to say it first.”
I suggest the lower bowl. Her reply arrives almost at once.
Traitor.
I laugh and leave the phone beside my plate. I still go to Mimosa two mornings a week when our schedule allows. It’s good to have work that ends with something I can carry across a room, then come home to Evgeny on the floor with one child climbing him while another examines his shoe.
A knock at the open door brings Filipp in with a paper bag. The children notice him in stages. Ilya sees the bag first, Taras turns toward his voice, and Milana releases Evgeny to hold out both arms.
“You’ve got reinforcements,” I tell my husband.
“He’s brought food.”
Filipp puts it out of reach before coming around the table. His arm has healed, though he sometimes rubs it when the weather changes. Today, he lifts Milana easily once Evgeny releases her straps.
She puts both hands on his cheeks. He allows the inspection with more patience than he grants most adults, waiting until she’s finished before resting his forehead against hers.
“There you are.”
She answers in a string of sounds while Janice opens the bag. Fresh rolls scent the room, making me hungry despite the bread I’ve already eaten. Janice puts one on a plate for Filipp and points him toward a chair.
He sits without first discovering something that needs doing. I catch Evgeny’s eye. He’s noticed too, and for a few minutes breakfast becomes almost settled.
Aleksandr lets me take the spoon. Lyudmila decides to eat her banana, and Ilya drops a piece of bread, apparently astonished when it remains on the floor. Then Taras sneezes into his fruit and startles himself badly enough that his face crumples.
Before Brittany can comfort him, Saveliy sneezes too. I start laughing, which makes him smile and gives Taras reason to reconsider the seriousness of what happened. Evgeny passes a cloth across the table while Regina reassures Evdokia, who’s watching everyone with suspicion.
I used to imagine a house full of children as one enormous feeling. Most mornings, dozens of small ones arrive together, and nearly all of them are sticky.
Evgeny’s phone vibrates. His expression changes as he reads, then he puts it down without replying.
“Ross wants to move the meeting to this afternoon instead of tomorrow. I haven’t answered. What do you need?”
I set down my tea. We planned to take the children into the garden after lunch if the weather holds. Getting seven coats sorted and finding the missing shoes can use most of the time we meant to spend outside. It’s an ordinary afternoon that needs both of us to make it happen.
I think before answering, instead of choosing whatever will make his day easier.
“Help us get them out, then go. I’d like ten minutes in the garden when nobody’s looking for a shoe.”
He checks the time. “I’ll offer him three. If that won’t work, tomorrow still exists.”
He sends the message and puts the phone away, then comes to sit beside me. We’ve decided what to do about the change together. I can return to my tea without planning how to tell him later that I minded being left to manage it.
I lean over to kiss his cheek. Saveliy objects to my moving away from his chair, holding out the toast he’s kept through the whole discussion. It’s damp at one end.
“Thank you,” I tell him, accepting it.
Evgeny looks from the toast to me. His mouth moves as though he’s preparing a comment, and I raise a finger before he can make it.
“Don’t.”
He takes the piece and eats the dry half. I laugh so suddenly that I nearly spill my tea, earning a pleased look from Saveliy, who seems to regard this as an acceptable use of his gift.
Across the room, Filipp has Milana on his knee and a roll safely beyond her reach. Regina lowers Evdokia onto the rug near the soft toys. Brittany brings Taras to join her, prompting Lyudmila to make her opinion of remaining at the table unmistakable.
There are dishes to clear and clothes to change. Warm bread is going cold in the basket, and someone has lost a sock without leaving the room. I stay in my chair for one more sip while Evgeny rises to lift Lyudmila.
He brings her around the table, bending to kiss me as they pass. I catch his sleeve before he can straighten, and he looks down at my hand with one eyebrow raised.
“That’s attached.”
“I know.”
I draw him toward me for a proper kiss. Our daughter pats my face between us, impatient to be included, and he laughs against my mouth.
For a moment, I keep them both exactly where they are.