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"Everyone makes mistakes, malyshka" he chuckles kindly.
"But I shouldn’t make that mistake! It’s not fair!" I challenge him with a petulant glare, my cheeks as fiery as my shout.
He watches me for a moment, the depths of his dark eyes warming with love. "Oh, malyshka." Taking my messy hair in his hands, he carefully winds it back up, tying it into a bun as he speaks. "It's not about fairness. Sometimes life just doesn’t go the way we want it to."
"That's happening a lot, lately," I complain.
"It happens to the best of us. Even you."
Pouting, I cross my arms and look pointedly at everywhere but him. I don't want to accept that it can happen to me. All my mistakes... all the lies I've told... all the ways I've hurt people.
Something loops through my brain. The scent of roses... a black tattoo... a ballet stage, like this one, but bigger. It's a memory that's trying to hook into my brain. But before it can, I shake it off and raise my head to find Dad smiling at me.
"What should I do?" I ask in a quiet hush.
His hands leave my hair. The bun is tight, but random strands have escaped it. It isn't perfect. "Just get back up. That's all anyone can do. Don't think about your mistakes, just think about trying again. That's what matters the most."
I try to stand, but my legs are numb, like they've fallen asleep. My father coughs into his fist. I squint at him, noting the hollows shadows around his eyes, the yellow tinge to his skin. He's sick. But he'll get better. He has to! He always gets better.
I brush my hands over my tutu, but it's gone now, and all I see are rose petals. They look like the ones in Arsen's garden. My heart staggers in my chest. Lurching, I hug my body with a whimper. "Daddy, why does everything hurt?”
"You’re alright, malyshka," he soothes me, cradling me closer. "You're okay, I'm here."
The curtains flutter around me again. But this time, I can tell that something’s not right. The stage doesn’t look as real as I thought. And Dad… his face continues to change. His eyes sink deeper into hollow pits. His face becomes sallow and stretched.
I’m no longer a ten-year-old girl.
And the pain. Oh God, the pain. It hurts so much.
"None of this is real,” I whisper as realization hits me. “You died.”
And then a worse realization hits me.
"You’re not my real father," I whisper. "You never were. I am Galina Yevgeniyevna... And I can't change that." Hot tears roll from my eyes even as I try to stop them from falling.
His gentle hands brush my temples. Familiar wide fingers that belong to strong hands tuck my hair behind my ear. He's worked himself to the bone from the moment he arrived in this country until the day he passed away. Gently, he plants a kiss on my forehead.
“It doesn’t matter, malyshka. You know who you are in your heart,” he says. “And nobody can take that from you. As far as I’m concerned, you will always be Galina Stepanovna."
I blink back a heavy shower of tears.
"Arsen says that, too," I sniffle. "I wish you could’ve met him."
"Tell me about him," he says.
"Where do I start? He's selfish but protective. Smart yet bone-headed. Kind in his own way yet terribly jealousy. He does what he thinks is best and it's not always right. But he’d die for me, he’d burn down the world for me, even if I begged him not to." I place my hand on my stomach. There's a strange twinge of pain—the world around me wobbles like steam has entered my eyes. "And I’m going to have his baby."
My father considers me in curious silence. "Does he love you?"
I don't have to think, I simply nod.
"As long as he loves you," he says. "That's the only thing that matters, malyshka."
Falling forward into his arms, I embrace my father with my full strength. The roses have vanished; all I smell is his familiar stringent soap, the shaving cream he used that I'd sometimes steal to make a fluffy beard on my face.
His grip loosens against me.
"There's not much time left," he whispers sorrowfully. “You’ll have to go back soon.”
