Page 23 of Healing Eleanor

She gives a stiff, mechanical bob of her head, avoiding eye contact. “The cancer… it’s back.”

I lean back and rub my face, trying to collect my thoughts. She’s the only softness in this house, and the only reason I still come around. If she has cancer again… gosh, I don’t even want to contemplate what this means for the future.

“Let me help,” I plead.

“Darling,” she whispers, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, just like she used to when I was a boy. “Just keep dancing, Nikusha. Keep teaching. That’s all you need to worry about.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. I’m already doing the math—appointments, transportation, how to rearrange my schedule. She won’t ask, but I’ll be there. Even if it means enduring my father’s wrath and pretending we aren’t worlds apart.

From the living room, his voice slurs, “Tell him to stop wasting time with ballerinas, Irina!” Then louder he says, “find a real job, Nikolai. Do something that proves you’re a man.”

My mother closes her eyes for a brief second, likely praying for patience. I stare at the floor, jaw clenched. My chest is being crushed from both sides. Of all the things I can handle, hearing that my mother’s cancer has returned and enduring my father’s drunken tirade at the same time is enough to splinter the façade I’ve spent years building.

“Don’t listen to him,” she whispers in Russian. “You’re doing holy work.”

It doesn’t exactly feel holy at this moment. My job is a blessing, yes, but it’s also a reminder of everything I’ve lost. Still, I nod, because if I don’t, my anger will spill over, and Mama doesn’t deserve that.

I close my eyes, letting the quiet wrap around me. Daria’s face surfaces behind my eyelids. Her laughter, the way she moved across the studio with effortless grace, the stubborn fire in her eyes that matched my own. Losing her has been like losing a part of myself, a wound I carry in silence. She believed in this path. I owe it to her to stay on it, even when it all feels like it’s crumbling.

The scrape of heavy boots on the floor jolts me back. My father steps into the kitchen, his shadow swallowing the doorway. His gaze sweeps over us—the pryaniki, the tea, the silence.

“Don’t stop talking just because I’m here.” His words slur, low and gritty. “Please, continue.”

Mama stiffens, her hand tightening around the mug. “Vadim, don’t start.” She sighs.

He scoffs, grabbing another beer from the fridge. “I’m the man of this house. I can say what I please.” His gaze sharpens. “Come on, Irina. Why are you cozying up to your son?”

Then he turns to me, giving that same look he always does whenever ballet comes up, like it’s a shame I haven’t grown out of.

Even on my father’s best day, he grumbles about the most inconsequential news. But on days like today, where he’s very clearly inebriated, he’s like a dam ready to burst. Whether it be flying glass, or lashing out, hurt would happen here tonight.

A strained sob chokes her words. “The cancer returned.” She straightens in her chair. “I was just telling Nikolai the news.”

The silence that follows is thick and suffocating. My father’s face contorts, and as predictable as ever, the beer bottle flies across the room, shattering against the wall. Dark liquid pooling on the floor.

“You kept this from me?” he bellows, stepping closer to the table. “And you tell this suka before me?”

“I just found out.” Mama’s voice wavers. She glances at the shattered glass on the floor. “I wanted all of us here together when I shared the news. I thought you’d understand.”

He shakes his head, rage simmering. “This family is falling apart because of secrets.”

I stand, years of silence and suppression ready to erupt. “It’s not the secrets. It’s that you refuse to see us, and your anger is unpredictable.” I gesture toward the mess on the floor. “I’m sure you would’ve noticed something was wrong if it wasn’t for all those bottles glued to your face.”

He meets my eyes. For a moment, something flickers there, but it isn’t kindness. Just more bitterness, buried deep beneath the alcohol.

“And what does that say about you, Nikolai? You see her nearly every day at your so-called job. You think this ballet nonsense defines you? It’s a joke.” He takes a measured step closer, barely reaching my height. An intimidation tactic, though one that no longer works on me. Still, his words have teeth.

“It won’t protect you from this.” He gestures vaguely, as if the life he’s built, the hardships he’s endured, aren’t just the demons he’s inviting into the house. Without Mama’s constant prayers, the spiritual warfare in this place would be unbearable.

I force a swallow, the battle inside me raging—faith versus fear, self versus shame.

I know one thing: I will keep going. For Mama. For Daria. For whatever healing might still be possible in this fractured family. God is a redeemer, and I cling to the hope that one day my father will see that too.

He storms out of the kitchen, the walls shrinking around me. I grab a broom and some paper towels from a nearby closet and get to work.

“Nik,” Mama says, swaying slightly, “you don’t need to clean this.”

I narrow my eyes at her, leaving no room for argument. There’s no way I’m letting her clean up his mess… again.