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“The bathroom is across the hall,” my dad says. “I, uh, guess I’ll leave you to it. Galina usually has dinner ready around seven, but if you get hungry before then, just let her know, and she can whip up a snack.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I fold my arms and wait for him to leave. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but he shakes his head and leaves without another word.
After my shower, I lay in my new bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. The unfamiliar surroundings are unsettling, and it’s keeping me on edge.
June can’t come fast enough.
I don’t want to open the door to my bedroom. This room feels far from a safe haven, but if I leave, I have to face my father and meet the housekeeper, who’s a total stranger. I don’t have the energy for that, but my stomach is growling, and hunger wins out over hiding in my room.
I haven’t unpacked my bag, so I grab the first set of clothes on top and pull them on. Underneath is a photo of Mom and a younger me from our vacation in San Diego, smiling without a care in the world with the sunny beach as our backdrop.
I set the framed photo on the vanity, and it’s my first step settling into this place. The room should feel like mine, even if it’s only for a brief stay.
Peeking my head out the door, I find the hallway empty. Laughter trickles from downstairs, so I follow the voices to the kitchen.
There’s a petite woman with mousy brown hair standing at the stove with her back to me. My father is beside her, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand.
I clear my throat, and my dad tears his eyes from his companion with a start. When he sees me standing in the entryway, he straightens up and hastily steps away from her.
“Ah, there you are,” he says. “Galina, this is my daughter, Willow. Willow, meet Galina.”
The woman turns away from the stove and wipes her hands on her apron. Her brown eyes are kind, and she approaches me with a genuine smile. If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her late twenties.
“Hello,” she says, extending her hand toward me. “I am Galina. It is nice to meet you.”
Her lilting voice holds a thick Russian accent. I accept her handshake, but all I can muster is a close-lipped grimace.
“We are very happy to welcome you to Olininburg,” she continues. “You will love it here.”
“Doubtful.”
Her smile falters, but she recovers quickly. “Are you hungry? I have prepared an American feast for you, but I will introduce you to Andarusian cooking very soon.”
I nod my head.
“How about we take a seat at the table?” my father suggests. “Willow, would you like something to drink?”
“Just water.”
“I will get that, David.” She shoos him away from the cupboard. “Go sit down.”
There’s something about their familiarity that irks me. My dad grins at her before ushering me to the dining room, which has a window overlooking the front yard.
“Is your room comfortable?” he asks, taking a seat across from me at the table. “Galina worked hard to decorate it for you.”
“It’s fine.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but when I don’t, we fall into an uncomfortable silence.
His face relaxes when Galina walks into the dining room with a casserole dish. She sets it down and makes a couple more trips, and soon way too much food crowds the table.
“Macaroni and cheese,” she says, pointing it out. “Pot roast with carrots, and sourdough bread. And of course, baked beans.”
It’s an odd choice of sides, which makes me wonder if she did an internet search for American food and grabbed the first recipes to pop up.
Galina takes a seat beside my dad, and they both look at me with expectant looks.
