My smugness over my intelligence didn’t last long. As soon as I stepped into the wide-open space, my stomach dropped to my ankles.
The entire room looked exactly the same, not a book overturned, not a lamp dusted. My imprint on this estate had not disappeared, had not lessened, instead it looked like I had never left.
Nikolai didn’t notice my hesitation and darted into the room, his laughter rising as high as the bookshelves. “Mama! Mama! Come find meeeee!”
I went to play when a little figure caught my eye. In the shadows, tucked beneath a single golden lamp, a child was stretched out on his belly, busy reading.
“Anton?”
Now, at five years old, Anton was a dead replica of his father. His inky black hair was cut short, errant strands sticking up from odd places. Electric-blue eyes peered at me from between long dark lashes and pearly-white skin. Beneath his eyes, huge dark purple bags spread, making him look much older than he was.
I crouched down, feeling my heart tighten in my chest. “Anton, how big you’ve gotten.”
Anton’s voice was quiet. “Hello, Auntie Lena.”
“Hello, Anton.”
He smiled faintly.
I gestured to the book. “A good read?”
“Yes, it is.”
A loud crash sounded from the back of the library.
Immediately, I followed the sound, skidding to a halt when I found Nikolai sitting on a pile of books, his entire form rumbling with laughter.
“Nikolai Tarkhanov!” I dragged him off the pile. “You could’ve hurt yourself!” I brushed the dust from his blond locks.
Anton came up behind me, face wary as he took in the newest addition to the household.
“Nikolai meet Anton, Anton meet Nikolai.”
The two young boys took each other in. Nikolai grinned and said hello, whereas Anton’s sullen face did not move. My son looked at me, questions in his eyes.
"Anton is Dmitri's son. You know Dmitri, wild boy."
"Baba?"
"Yes, the one who was holding Babushka." I smiled at Anton. He was listening, interested, but hadn't revealed anything on his face. "I knew Anton when he was your age."
Anton rubbed his cheeks. "I'm going to go and read." His voice was clear and formal, if not a little quiet. He left without another word.
My son didn't note the strangeness to the meeting. Instead, he tried to climb back up the pile of books. His lack of self-awareness worried me constantly, even if I knew he got his more adventurous side from me. Who could I blame when I saw the exact same tendencies in myself?
Niko and I found some books he was interested in for bedtime stories. He liked trying to scale the shelves and looking at the pretty pictures inside some of the novels. He didn't have my appreciation for knowledge and old artifacts, but he didn't complain about how long I spent browsing. He was used to it by now.
I thought our scheme to miss the second dinner had succeeded until I turned and spotted Konstantin at the open mouth of the shelves.
He stood between the books, hands in pockets and light shining behind him. When he moved his head, the blonde of his hair caught the light and sparkled like gold amongst the dusty library.
"It is time for dinner," he said. So polite, so formal. I almost threw a book at him.
"Nikolai and I aren't hungry."
Nikolai tugged on my leg. "I am hungry, Mama."
When he was sixteen and trying to get me to lie his way out of a science test, I was going to remember this.
Konstantin smiled. "Are you, Nikolai? Come downstairs then and have some dinner."
My son began toddling toward Kon, but I caught his hand. "Niko and I will grab something later."
"No, noo." Nikolai peered up at me, green eyes wide and lip quivering. "Mama, I'm hungry now."
Konstantin's grin was a flash of teeth. He knew he had won, and he knew I had lost.
We ended up going to dinner, even if I spent most of the meal praying for it to be over.
Nikolai sat at the end of the table with Evva, the two of them being entertained by Danika and Roman. Whenever Roman and Danika stopped their little show to fight, both toddlers fell into a storm of giggles.
I, unfortunately, was shoved to the adult side of the table. Where there were no chicken nuggets and you had to eat with a knife and fork. Konstantin sat in his usual seat as head of the table, ruling over us all. The entire two hours we sat there, he didn’t acknowledge me once. I could’ve been another piece of dining room furniture to him. Hell, I probably was.
“Where’s Anton?” I murmured to Roksana during the meal.
Her features tightened. “I asked him to join us but he declined.”
“How is he?” The little sullen boy I had seen in the library was not the charming child I remembered.
It was Dmitri who said, “He is traumatized. He killed his sister and his mother is a psychopath.”
The table fell silent. Nothing else was said on the topic.
I didn’t appreciate the domesticity, the little ‘Elena, pass the potatoes’ or ‘More wine?’ Three years had passed, three agonizing years, and everyone seemed content to act like they had never happened.
That wasn't what stirred up my temper, however. It was Konstantin.
I didn't like being ignored. He knew that. He knew the silent treatment got under my skin.
Don't let him get to you, a rational voice said in my mind.
It was too late. Konstantin had already gotten to me. I felt his entire presence beneath my skin, knotted in my hair and under my nails. Whenever he spoke, every cell inside my body seemed to ignite with electricity, and whenever he passed a platter over me, my lungs constricted painfully.
I kept praying Nikolai would spill something or get bored, so I had an excuse to leave. Kids, I would say in that bothered but relieved voice as I dragged the toddler out. What can you do?
My son, instead, was behaving himself. The one time I needed him to be trouble and he was too entertained by Roman to come up with any schemes.
I couldn't find it in myself to be mad as I watched his shining face. His eyes were wide as Roman folded a napkin into a strange bird-like shape, and his giggles were infectious when Danika pretended the napkin could fly.
The love I had for my son was so prominent, was so painful and gratifying, that if a doctor ever opened me up, he would see Nikolai's name written over the valves and aorta of my heart.
I wondered what other names they would find...
My eyes darted to Konstantin. He was leaning back in his chair, nursing his glass of vodka and listening patiently to something Roksana was explaining to him. From the airy movements of her hands and shine to her expression, she had to be talking about ballet.
Konstantin favored Roksana as a conversation partner during dinner. He barely spoke to Artyom, and Dmitri was too miserable to try and drag into small talk. Every now and then he would talk to Roman or Danika, but other than that, he sat silently.
The dynamic was very different to the dinners we had shared three years ago.
I think that's why a part of me had been trying to avoid eating with them. I didn't want to see how much they had changed, what had gone on without me there to witness. I didn't want to see their happiness without me but I also didn't want to see the sadness that my absence had wrought.
I didn't want to see this new man Konstantin had become.