19. Ana
ANA
Ilayer Mila without making her bulky and move fast while I do it.
She’s cranky. I grab the sweater with buttons so nothing has to go over her head.
The jacket follows. I get the leggings and socks on and work her boots into place one foot at a time.
She leans into me, eyes half closed, while I wrap the poncho around her and snap it shut.
Dominik brings the car right up to the door. He gets out with the large umbrella and holds it over us while I buckle her in. Once we’re inside, I slide thin gloves onto her hands so they stay dry.
“Is she still hot?” he asks as he gets behind the wheel, rain running off his coat.
I press my hand to her back. She’s still warm and her breathing is still quick.
He hands me wet wipes from the glove box. I wipe her face, then her palms. I keep my hand on her forehead and count her breaths.
We arrive at the clinic in ten minutes.
Dominik steers me toward a chair near the wall. I sit with Mila on my lap, her head heavy against my shoulder, heat soaking through my shirt. He stays close, not hovering, one step off to the side like any other parent waiting his turn.
He shifts his weight once, scans the room without turning his head. A man looks up from his phone. A nurse pauses at the desk. Someone coughs behind us. Dominik watches everything.
When the nurse calls Mila’s name, she glances at the file again to make sure. Her voice is measured, careful. I answer for Mila, who buries her face deeper into my shoulder. Her breath is still hot and shallow.
We walk down a short hall. The light buzzes faintly overhead and our steps barely echo on the tile.
Inside the room is a narrow bed with paper that crinkles, a desk with stacked files, a metal tray with capped syringes and glass vials already labeled.
The smell is chemical, faint, but it finds the back of my throat anyway.
Mila whimpers once. I shift her weight higher, grip tighter.
The nurse tells me to lay her down. I look at Dominik and then lay her on the bed. Mila cries. I hold her hand and sit beside her.
The nurse moves through the basics, weight, temperature, and blood pressure. Mila squirms and complains, then calms when Dominik distracts her by asking her to count the stickers on the cabinet. He crouches to her level, his voice gentle, his hand resting lightly on her knee.
I press my thumb against Mila’s knuckles and don’t look at him.
The nurse calls me for the paperwork. I write each line slowly, eyes tracing the letters twice before I hand it back.
She nods and keeps typing. “All right. I’ll need an emergency contact number.”
I hesitate and look at Dominik.
“Put mine down,” he says.
I write his number and slide the paper back across the desk.
“Do you have her early records, Mrs. Sokolova?” the nurse asks. “Newborn profile, screenings, anything from the first clinic visit.”
I stand at her counter, my fingers gripped tightly against the folder that carries all the papers. Newborn profile. My breath catches, and I let it go slowly. I angle myself just enough to keep him from seeing what I’m about to hand over.
“Can you watch her for a minute?” I ask, pulling Mila’s snack from the bag and passing it to him. “I need to fill these out.”
He nods and crouches beside her, pointing at the wall with the cartoon animals, keeping her busy.
I open the folder. Birth documents. Her vaccine card. The test profile from Arkhangelsk. I check the dates, the seals, my own handwriting. I smooth the corners with my thumb and slide them across the desk to the nurse. She takes them without hesitation.
I fold my hands to keep them steady and keep my face calm. Dominik doesn’t notice, and I don’t plan on letting him.
The doctor comes in next. He’s in his forties, hair thinning at the crown, glasses clean, hands tidy. He steps into the room with an easy walk, greets Mila first, then me, then Dominik. His eyes rest on Dominik a touch longer than politeness requires, then move on without comment.
He listens to Mila’s chest, checks her throat, presses gently along her belly. She complains a little. He smiles and tells her she’s brave. She straightens her back a bit at that, proud.
“How long has she had a fever?” he asks, already writing before she answers.
“She was cranky yesterday, refusing food,” I say. “This evening, I felt her body warm after dinner. It spiked fast.”
“Any recent travel?”
“Yes,” I answer. “From the north.”
He nods and notes it down. “Any chronic conditions?”
“No.”
“Family history of…” He glances at the chart and keeps going. “Autoimmune issues? Blood disorders?”
“No,” I say again.
He orders a basic panel, says it’s routine, just to be safe.
The nurse draws her blood. Mila doesn’t like needles. Dominik squeezes her hand and murmurs, telling her to focus on his fingers and the pressure she can control, not what she can see. She cries once.
I go down to the floor, kneel beside her, and take her other hand, holding it so her eyes don’t track the needle. The nurse talks to her about which sweet she likes best, which fruit she would pick after this is over. Before she can answer, the nurse steps back and says it’s done.
I look at the small vial of her blood sitting on the tray and my stomach turns. I don’t fold or gasp, but something in me feels tight. I reach for Mila and hold her close.
While we wait, the doctor flips through Mila’s chart. His finger stops on a line. He looks at the date longer than necessary. Then he frowns, just slightly.
“This marker,” he says, tapping the page with his pen, “it’s uncommon. Not alarming on its own, but unusual to see without context.”
My pulse climbs. I keep my face still.
“What does it mean?” Dominik asks.
“It can mean nothing,” he says, voice calm. “Or it can mean we ask a few more questions.” His eyes lift to mine. “Was she born here?”
“No,” I say. “She was born elsewhere.”
“Hospital birth?”
“Yes.”
He writes again. “Any complications?”
“No.”
Dominik doesn’t speak. He doesn’t interrupt. He watches the doctor’s hands, the way the pen moves, the way the questions land.
The doctor smiles at Mila again. “You’re going to be fine,” he says. “We’ll send the results once we have them. If anything needs attention, we’ll call.”
We walk out with a prescription for fever reducers and instructions I already know.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The cold feels thick. In the car, Mila slumps against me, worn out. I buckle her in, smooth her hair back, kiss her forehead. Dominik drives without speaking, jaw set, eyes on the road.
At the house, I put Mila to bed first. She’s asleep before I finish pulling the blanket up to her chin.
I stay there a moment, listening to her breathing, counting until the rhythm settles before I turn and leave the room.
When I step into the kitchen, Dominik’s setting the medicine down on the counter one by one, labels facing out.
“So much paperwork. This form, that document,” I say, my voice high. “All for a fever.”
“You’re worked up,” he says, still not looking at me.
“It delayed treatment.”
“There are rules.”
“Rules make us visible.”
“So does dodging them,” he says, his voice steadier than mine.
I fold my arms and step in. “You’re the reason any of this matters. You walk into a room and people look twice.”
He turns fully toward me. “You walked into a bank and touched a dormant account tied to Markov’s name. That’s what set this in motion.”
The words hit. I keep my face still. “That money belongs to Mila.”
“And she’s breathing safely right now because I’m here,” he says. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
I don’t move back. “I’ve kept her alive longer than you’ve known her.”
He steps closer, not crowding, not touching. Just close enough to narrow the space. “You don’t want to need me,” he says. “But you do.”
My hand hits his chest, open and firm. “You think you’re the only one who cares?”
His hand closes around my wrist, steady, anchoring. For a moment we stay there, close enough to feel each other’s breath.
Then he pulls me in and kisses me. “I’m here,” he says against my mouth. “That’s what matters.”
Even though I want to tell him the truth right then, that Mila is his and that I lied about her age, the words stay where they are.
I don’t know how he’ll look at me once he knows I kept something this big from him for years.
I’ve been hiding behind anger because it’s easier than saying what matters.
I love him. I never stopped. And if I tell him now, I might lose him for real.