Page 42 of Scarlet Chains
The questions burn on my tongue.
Why did you leave Budapest?
What were you doing with the Vorobevs?
How long have you been taking care of him?
But none of that matters now. Right now, we’re united by something wordless and desperate: Slava’s safety comes first. Everything else— the history between us, the unanswered questions, the way she makes my chest constrict just by breathing— can wait.
The interior hits me immediately. Children’s artwork covers every available wall surface— crayon drawings of stick-figure families under rainbow skies, construction paper flowersthat curl at the edges, handprint turkeys from last Thanksgiving. The hallway smells like disinfectant trying to mask the deeper scents of too many small bodies in too small a space. Somewhere deeper in the building, I can hear children’s voices, high and bright, echoing off institutional walls.
This is where I’m leaving my son.
My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood.
Ilona’s steps slow as we walk deeper into the building. I watch her take in the same details I am— the scuffed linoleum, the fluorescent lights that flicker every few seconds, the attempt to make this place feel like home when it’s anything but. Slava shifts in her arms, making soft baby sounds that seem jarringly innocent in this place.
“We’ve prepared a room on the second floor,” Simpson says, leading us up a narrow staircase. “Quiet, away from the older children. We thought it would be easier for him to adjust.”
The wordadjustsits wrong in my mouth. Like my son is a piece of furniture being moved to storage.
“Here we are,” Simpson says, pushing open a door at the end of the hallway.
The room they’ve prepared is small but clean. A cot with fresh linens sits beneath a window that looks out onto a tiny courtyard where a few older children are playing. Someone has tried to make it welcoming— there’s a mobile hanging above the cot with colorful animals, and a small basket of toys sits in the corner. But it’s still institutional. Still temporary. Still not home.
Ilona steps into the room and stops dead. I see it happen— the moment the reality hits her fully. Her shoulders go rigid, and I hear her breath catch. When she turns slightly, I catch a glimpse of her profile, and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
She loves him.
The realization shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. It crashes through me like a freight train, making it hard tobreathe. This woman, who has every reason to hate me, who disappeared from my life without explanation, has been caring for my son with a devotion I haven’t earned the right to witness. She’s loved him when I couldn’t. When I was drowning in my own misery, too consumed to be the father he deserved.
“The cot is fresh,” Simpson says, seemingly oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. “We have a night nurse who checks on the infants every hour, and meals are prepared in our kitchen according to dietary needs. He’ll be perfectly safe here.”
Safe.
The word feels like a lie in this place.
Ilona moves toward the cot with slow, deliberate steps. Each one looks like it’s costing her something vital. Slava has woken up and is looking around with wide, curious gray eyes, taking in the new surroundings. When Ilona reaches the cot, she just stands there for a moment, holding him close.
She doesn’t move to put him down. Just stands there, frozen, her arms tightening around his small body.
I step closer, drawn by something I can’t name. Close enough that I can smell her hair— it’s scented with something clean and floral that cuts through the institutional smell of the room. Close enough that I can see the fine tremor in her hands.
She flinches when I approach, but she doesn’t move away. For a moment, we’re both just standing there, looking down at this little boy who connects us in ways I’m still trying to understand.
Ilona leans down and places Slava gently on the cot. The mattress creaks under his slight weight. He looks up at her, then at me, his expression serious for someone so small. His eyes take in everything with an intelligence that seems impossible for his age.
“Here’s your bear, baby,” she murmurs, tucking a plush toy in beside him. She glances back over her shoulder at Simpson. “It’s his favorite,” she adds. “He doesn’t sleep well if he doesn’t have it.”
“We’ll be sure to keep it with him,” he says with a nod.
“Thank you.” Her voice cracks.
“I-lo-lo,” Slava babbles, reaching up toward her face.
The sound of his voice saying her name breaks something open in my chest. Ilona leans down immediately, her lips brushing against his soft cheek.
“Yes, baby,” she whispers, her voice trembling as she strokes his fine hair. “I’m here.”
