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The question comes out half challenge, half fear, and I hate him for hearing both.
His anger turns cold enough to change the space between us.
“No. I will never use Misha to punish you.”
“You say that now.”
“I say it knowing you lied to me for almost four years.”
My nails press into my sleeves. “So generous.”
His eyes harden. “Don’t mistake restraint for generosity.”
“And don’t mistake money and guards for fatherhood.”
Alexei looks toward the orange trees, then back at me. “I know what I missed.”
“You know a few days of him.”
“I know he checks windows before he plays. He hides the yellow car behind furniture when he thinks someone might see it. He hates bananas unless they’re mixed into yogurt, and he pretends his eyes itch when he’s tired.”
I say nothing.
He steps closer. “I know he copies the way I stand. He watches my face before deciding whether a joke is safe. He drew me beside you.”
My breath catches. Alexei reaches into his coat and removes the folded picture. He opens it between us.
Mama. Misha. The serious man.
“He put me there without anyone telling him to,” Alexei says, looking down at the paper. “You can hate what that means, but you can't erase it.”
I stare at the black crayon line through the figure’s eyebrow.
His voice frightens me. “What do you mean?” I ask.
Alexei folds the paper again. The pause tells me before he speaks. My stomach drops.
He looks at me with no humor left in his face. “I had the test done.”
I take one step back.
“Without asking me?”
“Yes.”
My mouth goes dry. I brace one hand against the clay tub as Alexei holds my gaze.
“And?”
He doesn’t look away. “I know that Misha is my son.”
17
VERA
Ileave the greenhouse before Alexei can say another word.
Back in the west wing, I try to keep moving, but the paternity test follows me from one task to the next. Alexei ordered it without telling me, and every time I settle on anger, something else pushes through, including hurt, guilt, and even relief. I can name every stage of shock in a trauma patient, yet I have no idea what to do with a man who discovered for himself that the child I kept from him is his. I want my mother. I want Marina beside me, leaning against a counter and telling me exactly where I’ve handled this badly.
