Page 80 of Porcelain Vows

“Diana lives near me. She’s an architect now— designs beautiful buildings.” I feel my lips curve in a rare genuine smile. “She still plays piano, just like you taught her.”

Mother’s eyes fill with fresh tears. “She had such talent. Even as a little girl.”

“Vasya runs the technical side of my business. He’s the same— brilliant with computers, awkward with people.”

She laughs softly, the sound so achingly familiar it sends a fresh wave of grief through me. All those years of missing that laugh. Of wondering where she was buried, how she died.

“And you?” she asks. “Are you married? Children?”

The question creates a complicated tangle of emotions. Stella. Polina. Bobik. The family I’ve cobbled together from broken pieces.

“I have… a daughter,” I say, deciding to start with the simplest truth. “Polina. She’s just a couple of weeks old.”

Mama’s face transforms with joy. “A granddaughter? I have a granddaughter?”

“She has your eyes,” I tell her. “And your smile, I think.”

She presses a hand to her heart, as if physically containing her emotion. “And her mother?”

“Stella. It’s… complicated.” I’m not ready to explain that relationship— the revenge that became love, the secrets and revelations still fresh between us.

Mother nods, accepting the boundary. “Life usually is.” She looks down at our clasped hands, then back to my face. “I have a confession, Lyosha. In my darkest times here, I wasn’t sure I would ever see you again. But I never stopped hoping. Every night, I would talk to you and Diana in my mind, telling you about my day, asking about yours.”

The simple statement breaks something open inside me. I imagine her lying on a bare bunk, whispering into the darkness, keeping her children alive in the only way available to her.

“How did you survive this place?” I ask, gesturing to our surroundings.

She is quiet for a moment, her expression distant. “Not well, at first. I fought. I screamed your names until my voice gave out. I tried to escape three times.” She smiles faintly. “The third time, they put me in isolation for six months.”

I tighten my grip on her hand, rage building toward my father, toward this institution, toward a system that could swallow a woman whole.

“After that, I found God,” she continues. “Not the God of cathedrals and icons, but something quieter. Something that helped me accept what I couldn’t change.” She touches the small Orthodox cross hanging at her neck. “Then I found cooking.” She smiles, and her face transforms. “The kitchen became my sanctuary. My small kingdom where I had some control.”

“Father told me you were dead,” I say, the words coming out roughly. “All this time, I believed he’d killed you.”

Pain flashes across her features. “Rodion always was a coward. Easier to have you think me dead than admit what he’d done.”

“Why?” The question that’s burned inside me since learning she was alive. “Why did he put you here?”

She withdraws her hand from mine, folding both in her lap. “That’s a longer conversation, Lyosha. One we should have, but not here. Not now.” Her eyes meet mine, steady despite the tears still clinging to her lashes. “How did you find me? After all this time?”

“That’s not important now,” I tell her, not wanting to ruin this moment by bringing up the bastard’s name who sent herhere. “What matters is that I’ve found you. I heard you were alive and I found you.”

“And you came immediately.”

“I had to see if it was true. If you were really…” I can’t finish the sentence.

She reaches out, touching my face again. “My Lyosha. Always so impulsive when your heart is involved.” The familiar gesture, the gentle teasing in her tone— it’s so perfectly her that I have to close my eyes against a fresh wave of emotion.

“I’m taking you home,” I say when I can speak again. “To America. To your family.”

Something shifts in her expression— hesitation, fear perhaps. “You don’t just leave Vostok, son. This place… it becomes part of you.”

“I don’t care what it takes. Money, connections, threats— I’ll use everything I have.” I lean forward, taking both her hands in mine. “I am not leaving you here. Not for another day.”

She studies me, seeing perhaps more than I want her to— the power I wield, the methods I employ, the man I’ve become in her absence.

“You have influence now.”

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