"Yes." It comes out broken.
I leave her there on the bathroom floor.
And as I walk down the hallway, pieces start clicking together in my mind. Pieces I've been deliberately ignoring because the possibility is too terrifying to examine.
Sickness. Every morning for a week.
Exhaustion despite adequate sleep.
Emotional outbursts. Crying at things that normally wouldn't affect her.
Refusing alcohol. Not just tonight but for over a week.
Won't let me touch her stomach.
Secret conversations with Tash about something she can't tell me.
My brain supplies an answer I'm not ready to face.
Pregnant.
No. It can't be.
We've been careful. She's on birth control. We took precautions after the first few times.
But nothing is foolproof. Nothing is guaranteed.
And if she is—if Valerie is carrying my child—
I can't finish the thought. Can't let myself hope or fear or feel anything about it until I know for certain.
But my feet carry me to Mila's room anyway.
The door is cracked open. She sleeps with it that way now—doesn't like complete darkness, doesn't like feeling trapped.
I push it wider and step inside.
She's curled on her side, clutching the stuffed bear I bought her. Face peaceful in sleep. No nightmares tonight. Just a little girl dreaming whatever little girls dream about.
I move closer. Sit on the edge of her bed carefully so I don't wake her.
Look at her small face. Her dark hair spread across the pillow. The way her chest rises and falls with steady breaths.
She looks like Katya. Has her mother's features, her delicate bone structure, her long lashes.
But she has my eyes. Gray like storm clouds. Like her brother's were.
Dmitri.
The thought of him hits like it always does—sharp and sudden and devastating.
I press my hand over my face. Try to breathe through the pain that never quite fades.
Katya pregnant with him. The way her hand would rest on her swollen belly. How she'd laugh when he kicked during dinner, interrupting conversations with his movements.
The anticipation. The fear. The overwhelming love for someone I hadn't even met yet.
Then two years of watching him grow. First steps. First words. That smile that lit up rooms.
