Page 77 of Porcelain Vows

A perfect prison disguised as a hospital.

I’ve spent decades building power, yet in this frozen corner of Russia, I’m reduced to begging and bribing for the simple right to see my own mother. I bite back my frustration, reminding myself of why I’m doing this.

Reznikov returns fifteen minutes later. “This way.”

I silently follow. We descend through the administrative levels to the ground floor, then follow a long corridor toward what he calls “the school”— a section where higher-functioning patients participate in structured activities. The atmosphere changes subtly— walls painted in warmer colors, artwork displayed, fewer locked doors.

“Most patients here maintain some connection to reality,” Reznikov explains as we walk. “They follow routines, interact appropriately, perform assigned tasks. Your mother has been in this section for twelve years.”

“Before that?”

His hesitation tells me everything. “The early years of treatment were… more intensive.”

My jaw tenses, but I keep my mouth shut. We turn a corner, approaching a set of double doors. Beyond them lies a large dining hall filled with simple tables and chairs. One wall features a glass partition providing a view into an industrial kitchen where several people in white uniforms work at various stations.

“The evening meal is served at six,” Reznikov says. “Your mother oversees all preparation.”

My heart pounds against my ribs as I scan the kitchen. Several patients chop vegetables. An older man stirs something in a massive pot. A woman arranges bread on trays.

And then, I see her.

She stands at a central workstation, gray-streaked hair tucked beneath a chef’s hat, her slender frame moving with the same grace I remember from childhood. Her back is to us as she demonstrates something to a younger patient, her hands gesturing in the familiar way that accompanied her stories at bedtime.

Twenty years.

Twenty fucking years I believed her dead, buried in some unmarked grave. Now she stands forty feet away, very muchalive, stirring a pot of soup as though the world hasn’t collapsed around me.

As if sensing observation, she turns slightly toward the glass. The knife in her hand moving mid-chop.

And I see her.

My mother’s eyes in a face I barely recognize.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Aleksei

Time stops.

All of my attention focuses on the woman behind the glass, her hands moving with the same precise ease I remember from childhood. The knife in her grip descends in a steady rhythm, transforming vegetables into neat, uniform pieces. A gesture so familiar it burns— the slight tilt of her head, the way she pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist to keep her hands clean.

Father wasn’t lying.

She’s alive.

My lungs forget their purpose. My heart thunders with such force I’m certain it’s audible. I stand motionless, unable to step forward or retreat, trapped by the impossibility of this moment.

She’s thinner than I remember. The soft roundness of her face has given way to more pronounced cheekbones. Her hair— once rich, dark brown like mine— is now streaked with silver, visible even beneath the white chef’s hat. Lines frame her eyes and mouth, speaking of more than twenty years of hardship.

Yet she’s unmistakably beautiful. Unmistakably her.

Mama.

She moves to a large pot, stirring its contents before tasting from a small spoon. Her expression shifts slightly— a small frown, a minor adjustment to seasonings. The same expression she wore when perfecting borscht in our St.Petersburg kitchen, insisting that cooking was both science and art.

A memory surfaces with such clarity that it steals what little breath remains in my lungs.

I am seven, sitting at our kitchen table, legs swinging above the floor. Mother hums as she cooks, some folk song whose name I’ve forgotten. The apartment smells of dill and garlic. Father is away— one of his disappearances that always left the apartment lighter, filled with mother’s laughter and music. She turns, catching me watching her.

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