Page 84 of Scarlet Chains
But Mom surprised me. She looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes and saw something I’m still learning to see— the man behind the monster, the broken pieces behind the dangerous facade, the love behind the violence.
“You must be Osip,” she said that first day, her voice stronger than it had been in weeks. “Ilona has told me so much about you.”
I hadn’t, actually. I’d barely mentioned him at all, too paralyzed by the weight of our history to know where to begin. But somehow she knew anyway, the way mothers always know the important things their children try to hide.
Now he moves to her bedside with a gentleness that still surprises me, this dangerous man treating my fragile mother like she’s made of silk and starlight.
“How are you feeling today, Judit?” he asks, and hearing her name in his Russian-accented English does something strange to my heart.
“Better, knowing my daughter will be taken care of,” she replies, and the meaning behind her words hangs in the air between all of us.
He takes responsibility. That’s what I’m learning about Osip Sidorov— he takes responsibility for everything, even things that aren’t his fault. He’s convinced that my mother’s illness is connected to my father’s death, that the stress and trauma of losing her husband triggered the cancer that’s now consuming her from the inside.
The doctors say that’s not how cancer works, that these things just happen sometimes, that there’s no way to trace a direct line from emotional trauma to cellular mutation. But Osipdoesn’t care about medical facts. He’s decided that my mother’s condition is his burden to bear, and he’s throwing everything he has at fixing it.
The treatment he’s arranged is cutting-edge, experimental, expensive enough to bankrupt most families. It’s based on the latest immunotherapy research, a revolutionary approach that could potentially turn her own immune system into a weapon against the cancer. The success rates are promising, the side effects manageable, the hope real enough to taste.
But it doesn’t start until next week.
“The timing is perfect,” Dr. Patel told us during yesterday’s consultation. “She’s stable enough to travel to the treatment center, strong enough to handle the preparation protocol. If we’re going to try this, now is the time.”
If we’re going to try this.
The words replay in my mind as I watch Osip adjust Mom’s blanket with the same careful attention he gives everything else he’s decided to protect. There’s still no guarantee. Even with all his money and connections and desperate determination to fix what he thinks he broke, there’s still a very real possibility that nothing will work.
But for the first time since I sat in that hospital corridor and learned that my mother was dying, I have something I’d forgotten existed: hope.
“Ilona,” Osip says, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. “Your mother and I have been discussing something.”
I look between them, noting the way they’re both trying not to smile, like they’re sharing a secret that amuses them both.
“We think you should have your wedding dress shopping expedition,” Mom continues, her eyes twinkling with mischief that reminds me of the woman she was before illness carved her down to essentials. “With company.”
“Mom, I told you, there’s not much to—”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand that’s too thin but still carries authority. “Every bride deserves to feel beautiful on her wedding day. Osip has already made arrangements.”
I turn to stare at him, and he has the grace to look slightly embarrassed by whatever machinations he’s been orchestrating behind my back.
“It’s no big deal,” he says quickly. “Just a few options, brought to the hospital. So your mother can be part of the process.”
The simplicity of it, the thoughtfulness, the recognition that what I need most is my mother’s involvement in this moment— it breaks something open in my chest that I didn’t know was locked away.
“You arranged for a bridal shop to come here?” I ask, my voice thick with emotions I can’t name.
“Three shops, actually,” he admits. “And a seamstress. Just in case alterations are needed.”
Of course he did. This man who rebuilds the world when it doesn’t meet his specifications, who refuses to accept limitations when the people he loves are involved, who somehow knew exactly what I needed before I knew it myself.
“Osip,” I whisper, but before I can figure out what else to say, there’s a soft knock on the door.
“That would be the first appointment,” he says, checking his watch with the satisfied expression of a man whose plans are unfolding exactly as intended.
The next hour unfolds like something from a fairy tale. Three consultants from Boston’s most exclusive bridal boutiques arrive with garment bags and jewelry cases and enough silk and lace to outfit a small army of brides. They transform Mom’s sterile hospital room into something magical, hanging dresses from the IV pole and the window latches,spreading veils across the visitor chairs like clouds made of dreams.
Mom sits propped up in her hospital bed, looking more alive than she has in weeks as she evaluates each option with the critical eye of someone who understands the power of perfect details. The consultants defer to her opinions, treating her like the mother of the bride she is, including her in every decision despite the circumstances that keep her trapped in this room.
“That one,” she says decisively when I emerge from the small bathroom wearing the fourth dress, something simple and elegant in ivory silk that hugs my curves without overwhelming them. “That’s the one.”
