Page 63 of Porcelain Vows

Oh God.

Did he use me to get to Dad?

A cold sweat prickles on my brow.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I knew you, but I had no idea of the connection.”

I stare at him, looking for some sign that he’s lying and finding none. Still, I can’t help saying the words I say next: “I don’t believe you. How? How am I supposed to believe you?”

He gives a small nod. “I understand why you would hate me for this,” he says simply. “It’s ironic that our lives were joined even back then; the mother of my daughter is the child of the man who destroyed my son’s life. God has a twisted sense of humor.” He shrugs. “But I won’t beg your forgiveness. Because this was something that I had planned for years. Something that I would have done whether I knew you or not.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the world from spinning wildly. I press my fingertips against my eyelids.

“I need…” My voice fails. What do I need? Space? Time? To scream? To hit him? “I need to be alone.”

Aleksei nods, making no move to stop me as I back toward the door. “Take whatever time you need. But remember, Stella— your father wasn’t the saint you believed. And I am not pure evil; just a father who felt his child had been wronged.”

I flee before he can say more, stumbling through the corridors of Blackwood Manor until I reach my bedroom in the Left Wing. The night nurse looks up from where she sits beside Polina’s bassinet, concern crossing her face at my obvious distress.

“Ms. Fermont? Are you alright?”

“Fine,” I manage. “Please… just watch Polina. I need to rest.”

She nods, professional enough not to pry, and returns her attention to my sleeping daughter. I retreat to the bathroom,locking the door behind me before collapsing against it, sliding to the floor as sobs rack my body.

My father, drunk during a delivery. A baby— Aleksei’s son— permanently disabled through his negligence. Our family’s flight to America not for opportunity but to escape consequences. My mother’s suicide not just from grief but perhaps from knowledge of her husband’s guilt.

And Aleksei— the man I’ve shared a bed with, whose child I’ve borne— orchestrating my father’s death.

The worst part is that it makes sense. The pieces fit in ways that simple lies wouldn’t. When I was a child, my father always spoken openly to us about his work, but all of that stopped after we moved to America. I think of the hushed conversations he and my mother would have that stopped when we entered the room. The very fact that we uprooted our entire lives to start again in a completely different country, despite my father’s thriving career back in Russia. None of it made sense at the time, but we were young. We did as we were told.

“My God…” I say brokenly as my heart shatters in a dozen different ways. “Oh, my God…” I cry until my throat is raw and my eyes burn, until physical exhaustion temporarily numbs the emotional pain. Somehow, I make it to bed, collapsing fully clothed atop the covers.

My last thought before sleep claims me is of Polina— innocent, perfect Polina— now tied to this tragic history.

Morning arrives with harsh clarity, sunlight too bright against my eyelids. My eyes feel swollen, my body heavy with the weight of yesterday’s revelations. For one blessed moment, I exist in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, before memory crashes back.

My father. Aleksei. Bobik. The terrible connection between our families.

A soft knock interrupts my thoughts. The night nurse peers in, Polina cradled in her arms.

“She’s hungry,” the woman says simply. “Would you like me to bring her to you?” If she notices my puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks, she doesn’t say anything.

I nod, sitting up against the pillows. My breasts are heavy with milk, my body’s needs continuing despite my emotional turmoil. The nurse places Polina in my arms and discreetly withdraws, leaving us alone.

“Oh, baby… my sweet, sweet girl,” I whisper brokenly as I look down at my daughter’s face where she nuzzles against my chest. Her tiny features are so perfect— Aleksei’s dark eyes, my nose, a unique blend of us both. I guide her to my breast, and she latches on with surprising strength, drawing milk with single-minded focus.

The physical sensation grounds me, this simple connection between mother and child. As she nurses, I stroke her cheek with my fingertip, marveling at the softness of her skin, the absolute perfection of her tiny body.

Love overwhelms me. Pure. Powerful. All-consuming. I’d do anything for this little life I’ve created. Move heaven and earth to protect her. Kill for her, if I had to.

And suddenly, like a lightning strike, something clicks.

If someone’s negligence damaged Polina— if a drunk doctor permanently disabled my perfect child— what wouldn’t I do? What revenge wouldn’t seem justified?

The realization hits with physical force, milk letting down in a rush that makes Polina gulp and sputter. I adjust her position automatically, my mind racing with this new understanding.

I’m a mother now. A giver of life. A defender of something innocent and pure. I imagine Aleksei, younger but no less intense, watching his newborn son struggle for existence. Hearing that his child would never walk, never run, never experience the simple freedoms most take for granted. All because a doctor chose to work while impaired.

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