Page 25 of Hold the Line

I take a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay low and controlled even as rage simmers under my skin.

“And Ravensburg is in Canada, you ignorant drunk,” I say flatly, staring him down.

He blinks, confused for a second, then his face twists with fresh anger. Before he can spit out another insult, I turn away from him and move to the stove. My hands are steady as I fill a plate with borscht and pelmeni. I slam it down on the table in front of the empty chair with enough force that the spoon rattles.

“Eat,” I tell him. “Or don’t. I don’t care. But you will not speak to her like that in front of me again.”

My father glares at the plate like it insulted him, then at me. For a moment I think he might throw it. Instead he drops heavily into the chair, muttering curses under his breath as he picks up the spoon with shaky hands.

My mother watches me with wide, glistening eyes — a mix of fear, pride, and something like relief. I pull out her chair for her and wait until she sits before taking my own seat again. The three of us eat in heavy silence, broken only by the clink of spoons and the low drone of the old hockey game still playing in the living room.

I keep my eyes on my bowl, but my mind is already miles away.

The next day is worse.

I spend the morning helping my mother pack the last of her things — clothes, old photos, a few books, the small wooden jewelry box I gave her when I was ten. She moves quietly, folding everything with care, but I can see the tremble in her hands. The fear. The hope. It breaks something in me every time I look at her.

We are almost done when my father stumbles into the bedroom, his eyes wild and breath reeking of vodka already. “You cannot take her!” he barks, his voice cracking with drunken rage. “She is my wife!”

Before either of us can react, he lunges for one of the open suitcases and starts throwing her clothes onto the floor in a fit of fury — blouses, sweaters, the old cardigan she always wears. Fabric scatters across the worn carpet like broken pieces of her life.

I cross the room in two strides and shove him hard in the chest. He stumbles backward and collapses onto the sofa with a grunt, shocked.

“You will not touch her things,” I shout. “You will not touch her. Ever again. Do you understand me?”

My father stares up at me from the couch, breathing hard, his face twisted with alcohol and resentment. For a second I see myself in him — the anger, the size, the way my hand had wrapped around Cole’s throat in that shower. The thought makes me sick.

“You think you can come in here and take what is mine?” he snarls, trying to push himself up. “You ungrateful—”

“Enough!” I roar, stepping forward again. My mother flinches behind me, but I cannot stop. “She is not yours to break anymore. She is coming with me. And if you ever lay a hand on her again, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”

The room falls deathly silent except for my father’s heavy breathing. He glares at me, but there is fear in his eyes now. Real fear.

My mother’s small hand touches my back. “Vitya… enough.”

I step back slowly, chest heaving, fists still clenched at my sides. The anger is still there, burning hot, but underneath it is the same terror that has haunted me for years.

I kneel down and start picking up the clothes with careful hands, folding them again. My mother joins me silently. My father stays on the couch, muttering curses under his breath.

We finish packing in heavy silence. Two large suitcases and several bags stand by the door. My mother is quiet but determined, wearing her old coat and clutching her small handbag like a shield. I carry the heaviest bags, my duffel slung over my shoulder, and we head for the front door.

My father is waiting. He walks out of the living room as we reach the hallway. His eyes lock on my mother’s suitcase and something ugly twists across his features. “You’re not taking her!” he bellows, lunging forward and grabbing the handle of the largest suitcase. “She is my wife! You cannot just walk in here and steal her like some thief!”

He yanks hard, trying to rip the bag from my mother’s side. She flinches, stepping back. The sight of his hand so close to her makes my blood boil over.

I drop my bags with a heavy thud and move fast, grabbing him by the front of his stained shirt and shoving him backward. He crashes into the wall, eyes wide with shock and drunken rage.

“Don’t,” I snarl, stepping into his space until he has to crane his neck to look up at me. My voice is low, cold, and deadly calm. “Don’t make me take this house from you too, old man. You chose this by drinking your life away, by touching the softest thing in my life. You are done.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. My father’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.

My mother’s hand finds my arm again, gentle but firm. “Vitya… that’s enough.”

I hold my father’s gaze for one more second, letting him see exactly how serious I am. Then I step back, pick up the bags again, and turn toward the door. “Come, Ma,” I say softly, offering her my arm.

She takes it without hesitation. We walk out together into the cold Russian air, leaving my father standing in the doorway, shouting curses that grow fainter with every step.

The cab is already waiting. I load the bags into the trunk, help my mother into the back seat, and slide in beside her. As the car pulls away from the house, I look back once.