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Iryana dragged in a breath.

“She did change,” Iryana whispered, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “Lost weight. Stopped singing, stopped laughing. Stopped smiling. I could hear her crying almost every night. She was too frail to even carry Misha by the end. It destroyed her.”

Hadima’s breaths were heavy, halfway to a whimper. “Then how can you blame her for running? You saw what she went through, experienced it firsthand. Knowing that, can’t you forgive her?”

“That’s why I can’t forgive her,” Iryana snapped. “She knew what she was leaving us to. She left her four-year-old with her abuser.”

“She left you there, too,” Hadima reminded her, voice gentle as well-worn cotton. As if Iryana wasn’t aware.

Iryana had been horribly behaved during those years with their mother in the cottage. She didn’t blame her mother for not wanting to take her along. For not wanting a daughter like her.

“I can understand her leaving me. But Misha? Leaving her behind was unforgivable. Misha didn’t do anything wrong.”

More vodka burned down her throat as Iryana tipped the bottle back, hand fisting around its neck.

Their mother had betrayed them. Chosen herself over them. And even if Iryana understood why she’d left, she could never forgive it. In order to forgive her mother, she would have to forgive herself for her part in driving their mother away.

Hadima swallowed audibly. “She was a victim in that house, as much as you.”

Iryana shrugged.

“Great, but leaving wasn’t her only choice!” Misha sat up straight, spine rigid. “She could have told grandmother she couldn’t do it anymore. She could have brought us with her. She could have poisoned Dad’s tea and spared us all the torment.”

“You wish she’d killed him?” Hadima asked, brows crumpled in confusion. “Her own husband?”

Misha laughed bitterly. “It would have been better than leaving us. It would have been a mercy. If someone was hurting you two, I would kill them, no matter who they were.”

Iryana blinked at her little sister. For all her anger, Misha wasn’t being dramatic. Wasn’t spitting out words like she hadn’t thought them through. What she said was deliberate. This was something Misha had clearly thought about extensively.

“She loved him,” Hadima said weakly, twisting her hands in the blankets. “They were so in love when I was young. I can’t imagine she could bring herself to do it.”

“What do you think, Iri?” Misha leaned forward, leveling her gaze at her.

There was a time when she’d thought Karvek was the only person who would accept her, broken as she was. Yet he hurt her sister and put her clan in danger. She’d killed him to protect them, yet she couldn’t make herself utter those words as if she thought she was better than her mother.

She didn’t.

Did she wish her mother had poisoned her father? Killed him before the poppy could have done it?

Iryana started to shake. Should she have done it herself?

She could remember the times he’d hurt her. How she’d kept Misha away, told her never to enter their father’s room. There were a few times Misha had messed up, making their father angry, and Iryana had always ensured his rage was directed at her, took the punishment for her little sister. She could remember worrying their father would hurt Misha.

There was one night where Misha had left her dolls out on the floor and Iryana had slipped, spilling some of the poppy tea on the floor. Her father had been livid, demanding Misha come to him, but Iryana had told her to stay out. That night had been a bad one for Iryana. But she remembered staring her father down, thinking of the knives in the kitchen, and knowing that if he tried to touch Misha, she’d stop him.

But the next morning, the clan had realized their mother left, and they took Misha away. The thought hadn’t occurred to her again.

Iryana’s head was pounding.

“She could have made a better choice,” Hadima relented. “Should have made a better choice. But… you have to understand that she was a wonderful mother… before.”

“Like Dad wasn’t a monster before his injury?” Misha snapped with frustration. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t understand, Misha,” Hadima cried, tugging at the braid that Iryana realized she wore just like their mother. It was like she gave up on hiding her pain, or just failed entirely.

“I’m the oldest, I should have been there to help. It would have been easier for her if I was there! She wouldn’t have left.”

Iryana choked down a sob. Perhaps Hadima could have helped, but Iryana couldn’t bring herself to resent her sister for it. Not anymore. She couldn’t.