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Like the photograph resting in the middle of our living room. Kian is between us, clutching our hands as he takes wobbly little steps through the garden of pink roses I planted, inside the world Sergei built around us.
“Kian.” I cross my arms around my chest and he rounds the counter, no longer hiding behind Sergei and marches to stand in front of me.
“I’m sorry mama, I really wanted that chocolate.” Kian had Sergei’s dark hair, but his eyes were entirely mine—soft green and far more innocent and pure.
“Would it be okay if I don’t give you the chocolate tomorrow?”
His little face almost scrunches up in devastation before he catches himself, trying very hard to be brave about the consequence.
He nods, a tiny jerk of his head. “Okay.”
Behind him, Sergei makes a suspicious choking sound like he’s also losing the battle not to laugh or cry over a toddler being accountable over a stolen chocolate.
“Are you seriously blaming a kid for having a sweet tooth?” Sergei says in mock offence. “He got it from you.”
Before I can respond, he lifts Kian onto his shoulders effortlessly, our son squealing happily as tiny hands immediately fists into Sergei’s dark hair for balance.
And then the absolute menace scoops me off the ground too.
I gasp loudly as his one arm wraps around my back while the other hooks beneath my knees, holding me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.
Kian bursts into delighted giggles above us. “Mishka!”
“What?” he asks innocently, already carrying both of us towards the hallway like this is completely normal behaviour. “Do you not remember?” he continues smugly. “That you drink hot chocolate like it’s water?”
“That is entirely different.”
“It’s literally melted chocolate.”
Kianleansforwardfromhisfather’sshoulders dramatically. “Mama likes whipped cream too.”
Traitor.
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically. “We’ll have hot chocolate tomorrow.”
Kian lets out an excited little gasp from atop Sergei’s shoulders like I just announced Christmas came early.
“You too, Mr. I hate sweet stuff.” I tap Sergei’s nose when it instantly crinkles in disgust.
“Fuck, baby.” Sergei groans the moment he walks into our bedroom. “Can our next child please be a daughter?”
Before I can even respond, he throws himself dramatically on top of me across the bed, burying his face into my neck like a man who’s just survived war.
I laugh breathlessly, hands automatically sliding into his hair. “That bad?”
“He told me he wanted to brush his teeth himself.” Sergei mutters into my skin. “And ended up brushing his tongue and the left side of face.” I snort and he snuggles closer.
We got married three years ago, when we moved to Finland before our son was even born.
When I was finishing my degree, he was building his tech company and our home—a castle of pink marble with rose- tinted glass that bathed every sunrise in something almost otherworldly.
He never lets me forget that pink is a personality and I should own it.
Sergei said he wanted our child’s first memories to be soft ones. Snowfall outside bedroom windows and warm meals.
Now our mornings are filled with Kian’s laughter echoing through the house while Sergei pretends to scold him for climbing furniture he absolutely taught him to climb.
Sometimes I still look at him and struggle to reconcile the man he used to be with the one standing barefoot in our kitchen holding our son against his chest.
