Page 23 of Porcelain Vows

“Papa!”His face lights up, pale but animated. The shadows under his eyes have lessened since yesterday. “Dr. Malhotra says I can go home today.” He’s hopeful and expectant, waiting for my reaction like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“That’s right,” I say, moving to his side and ruffling his dark hair gently. “Everything’s ready for you,synok.” I force my voice to remain steady, businesslike. The relief flooding through me at his improved condition is an unfamiliar weakness I refuse to display. My hand lingers on his head a moment too long, betraying me despite my best efforts. I withdraw it quickly, adjusting my cufflinks again as I straighten to my full height beside his bed.

Malhotra nods at me, his expression carefully composed beneath the fluorescent lights of the room.

“We’ve prepared all the medications and instructions for home care. The follow-up appointment is scheduled for next week.” His voice maintains that clinical precision that both reassures and irritates me.

I appreciate his thoroughness— it’s why I hired him— but his detachment sometimes makes me want to grab him by his pristine lab coat and demand he acknowledge what this means.

My son is coming home. Bobik is finally well enough to leave this sterile prison.

I pay little attention to Malhotra. My focus is entirely on Bobik, still confined to the wheelchair that was supposed to be temporary. The experimental treatment was meant to be his liberation— his chance to run, to play, to live like other children. Instead, we’re right back where we started.

I swallow the lump in my throat. Vulnerability isn’t something I’m used to, but between Bobik and Stella, I’m turning into some kind of pussy.

Pizdets!

“Let’s get you home,synok,” I manage; my voice comes out rough, so I clear my throat.

The discharge process passes in a blur of paperwork and medical jargon. I sign where directed, listen to instructions I already know by heart, and focus on keeping my expression neutral. Inside, rage simmers—at the doctors who promised miracles, at the technology that failed, at myself for believing.

As I push Bobik’s wheelchair out of the hospital, I grasp the handles too tightly. Each step is a reminder of his shattered hopes. The sun is too bright, the air too fresh, mocking the heaviness in my chest. All the fucking money in the world, andI can’t give him the one thing most people take for granted. I struggle to keep my emotions and my anger in check, conscious of my son’s presence.

Keep it together, dolboyob.

Not here.

Not now.

I help Bobik into the car, folding his wheelchair and stowing it in the trunk. The routine is familiar— too familiar. It wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.

Once we’re on the road, silence fills the car. I adjust the rearview mirror, catching glimpses of my son gazing out the window. He looks tired, his eyes shadowed, but there’s still that spark in him— that stubborn light I’ve always admired.

“Dad,” Bobik’s voice breaks the silence, small but steady. “It’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

I meet his eyes in the mirror, surprised by the strength I see there. My son, my brave boy, is trying to console me.Blyad. I should be the one consoling him, not the other way around. He’s been through hell— surgery, recovery, the crushing disappointment— yet here he is, worried about me.

“I know you are,” I say. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

He smiles at that, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “Stronger than you?”

“Much stronger,” I confirm, and I mean it. This child has faced more challenges in his ten years than most men face in a lifetime, and he’s done it with a strength that humbles me.

As we turn onto the private road leading to Blackwood Manor, Bobik perks up visibly. His eyes brighten as the familiar landscape comes into view— the manicured gardens, the symmetrical buildings of the estate, the long rectangular pool glittering in the sunlight.

“Finally!” he exclaims, pressing his face closer to the window. “I’ve missed home so much.”

Home.

The word hits differently when spoken by my son. This place— this fortress I built with blood money and brutal negotiations— becomes something else when I see it through his eyes. Something almost sacred.

I park near the entrance to the Left Wing, where Bobik’s rooms are located. As I help him into his wheelchair, he’s already chattering excitedly about his plans.

“Can we stop by the library first? I want to see if the new astronomy books came. And I need to check my computer— I was in the middle of a simulation when we left for the hospital. Oh! And I want to show Stella my new telescope model.”

His enthusiasm is infectious, lifting some of the weight from my shoulders. “One thing at a time,synok,” I say, unable to suppress a small smile. “Let’s get you settled first.”

Inside, the manor is quiet and cool, a contrast to the sterile brightness of the hospital. Diana has prepared everything meticulously— fresh linens on Bobik’s bed, his favorite books arranged on the nightstand, a small vase of sunflowers brightening the room. My sister understands what my son needs, even when I struggle to articulate it myself.

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