Page 32 of Scarlet Chains
In the time I’ve been caring for Slava, his parents have never gone more than twenty-four hours without checking in; they may not be loving, but they’re certainly thorough. Elena calls daily— generally before bed— to check if the household is running smoothly and that Slava is maintaining his routine. Leonid sends business-like texts with questions about feeding schedules and developmental milestones, as if his son were a quarterly report to be managed.
Their silence feels unnatural. Wrong.
From upstairs comes a sharp, frustrated cry that cuts through my spiraling thoughts. Slava. I skip up the stairs, my bare feet silent against the imported Italian marble, and find him standing in his crib, tiny fists gripping the rails like a prisoner demanding release.
“Hey, little man,” I coo, lifting him into my arms. His body is warm and solid against me, but he’s trembling— that subtle shake babies get when they’re overwhelmed. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t stop crying. If anything, the sound grows more desperate, his face scrunching into that particular expression of infant outrage that breaks my heart every time. I’ve learned to read his moods over these weeks— hungry cries versus tired cries versus lonely cries. This is something else entirely. Something that feels like fear.
Babies pick up on energy. I know this. They’re like emotional barometers, sensing tension and stress in ways that adults have trained themselves to ignore. My own anxiety must be bleeding into him, making him feel unsafe in a world that should be simple and secure.
“Okay, okay,” I whisper, swaying gently as I carry him to the window. Outside, the Boston skyline glitters against the inky night sky. Somewhere out there, his parents should be making their way home. Should be, but aren’t. “Let’s try to reach Mama, shall we?”
I grab my phone with one hand while supporting Slava with the other, scrolling to Elena’s contact. As the phone rings uselessly in my ear, Slava’s cries begin to quiet. He’s watching me with those enormous eyes, and for some reason, I’m convinced they’re filled with hope.
Nonsense, Ilona.
You’re projecting.
The call goes to voicemail again.
Slava points at me with one chubby finger, his tears still fresh on his cheeks. “Ma-ma.”
I freeze, staring down at this beautiful, innocent child who doesn’t understand that I’m temporary. That I’m just the help. That at some point, I’ll disappear from his life forever.
“No,” I say softly, stroking his dark hair. It’s getting longer, no longer the wispy baby fuzz it was when I first arrived. “I’m not Mama. Mama is coming soon. I’m Ilona.”
He tilts his head, processing this information with the serious concentration only toddlers can manage. “I-lo-lo,” he says, the syllables clumsy on his tiny tongue. “I-lo.”
“Well said!” The praise comes automatically, along with a kiss pressed to his soft hair. He smells like baby shampoo and innocence, and the guilt that’s been my constant companion these past weeks crashes over me like a wave.
How am I going to leave him?
When I took this job, it was supposed to be simple. Good money, temporary arrangement, help a wealthy family while I figured out my next move. I didn’t expect to fall in love with this little boy. I didn’t expect him to fit so perfectly in my arms, or for his laughter to become the highlight of my day. I certainly didn’t expect him to call me Mama with such complete trust.
The Vorobevs pay me well— extraordinarily well, by nanny standards. But money was never the real draw, not after the first couple of days. It was Slava’s smile when I walked into his room each morning. It was the way he’d reach for me when he was scared or hurt. It was teaching him new words and watching his face light up with pride.
I’ve been lying to myself, pretending this was just a job. But jobs don’t break your heart.
“Where the hell are they,” I mutter, frowning through the window into the darkness. We’re well past dinner now, the evening light long-since faded into pure darkness. The antiqueclock in the hallway chimes nine times, each note resonating through the house. Slava’s energy is flagging, his earlier distress giving way to the drowsy crankiness that means he’ll sleep again soon.
“Let’s get you settled,” I murmur, carrying him to his bed.
I place him in his crib, and he immediately protests, reaching for me with both arms. “I-lo, I-lo.”
“I’m right here,” I promise, settling into the rocking chair beside his bed. It’s the one piece of furniture in this house that feels lived-in, softened by nights of songs and stories and whispered comfort. “Try to get some sleep, okay? You need your rest.”
I begin to sing— an old Russian lullaby my Dad used to hum to me, one of the few things from my childhood that doesn’t hurt to remember. My voice is soft, but Slava’s eyes immediately begin to flutter. He fights it for a few minutes, that stubborn determination to stay awake that all toddlers share, but eventually succumbs.
His breathing evens out, deep and peaceful. One little hand clutches the corner of his blanket— a gesture so achingly vulnerable that I have to blink back tears. I tuck the blanket more securely around him, my fingers gentle against his warm skin.
“Sweet dreams, little prince,” I whisper.
Downstairs, the house feels even more oppressive in its silence. I make my way to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands, some way to quiet the anxious energy buzzing under my skin. Cooking has always been my therapy— the precise movements, the transformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing and beautiful.
The Sub-Zero refrigerator is still immaculately stocked. The regular deliveries have been an endless parade of organic produce and artisanal delicacies that most people only dreamof tasting. Tonight, I find Scottish smoked salmon, perfectly ripe avocados, aged cheeses from small French farms, fruits so perfect they look artificial.
I assemble a simple meal— salmon and avocado on toasted pita, garnished with capers and a squeeze of lemon. It should taste amazing, but everything seems bitter as I eat alone at the massive kitchen island. The marble surface is cold under my elbows, a reminder of how beautiful and hollow this place really is.
