Page 88 of Scarlet Chains
The soft creak of the floorboards makes him pause. He looks up, his wide, curious eyes landing on me with the kind of direct stare that cuts straight through pretense. Those eyes—blyad, it’s like looking into a fucking mirror. Pale gray, framed by thick dark lashes. And the fire burning behind them, the determination, the cold survival instinct— that’s from me.
He’s clearly a strong boy. He had to be, to make it through his first year on this planet.
He clutches his stuffed bear in one hand— a brown, worn thing that’s clearly been his comfort through long nights and uncertain days. The bear looks like it’s been through hell, one ear chewed, stuffing peeking through a small tear in its side. But Slava holds it like it’s made of gold, and something in my chest pulls tight at the sight.
He studies me with an innocence that twists something deep inside me. There’s no fear in his expression, no wariness that comes from too many strangers passing through his life. Just curiosity and recognition flickering in those familiar eyes.
And then, he stands. His little legs are steadier than I expected, more confident. He toddles toward me with the determination of someone who’s made up his mind about something important.
When he stops in front of me, barely two feet away, he stares at me. Not through me, not past me— at me. Like he’s taking in every detail of my face, committing it to memory. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that’s been bothering him for months.
I reach out slowly, as if afraid he might vanish like smoke if I move too fast. My thumb— scarred from fights, stained with sins he’ll never know about— gently brushes across his cheek. His skin is impossibly soft, warm with life and promise.
“Slavochka,” I whisper, and my voice cracks on his name like I’m a teenager again. “It’s me. Papa.”
His head tilts to the side, processing the word with the careful consideration of someone learning a new language. I can practically see the gears turning in his mind, connecting sounds to meanings, memories to reality.
Then he murmurs, “Pa-pa.”
Bozhe moy.
My throat closes completely, too thick with emotion to allow speech or air. This is it. This is the moment I’ve been fighting for, praying for, killing myself trying to reach. My son— my boy— recognizing me, claiming me, accepting me as his father.
“Yes,” I manage to choke out. “Pa-pa.”
The tears I’ve been holding back for months finally spill over, hot tracks down my cheeks that drip off my chin because I’m not bothering to hide them. Fuck my reputation. Fuck my image as the cold, controlled, morally gray businessman. This is my son, and I’m allowed to cry when he calls me Papa.
Without hesitation, he steps forward and touches my arm with his small hands, the universal gesture of a child asking to be held in a hug. It’s like we understand each other without words, like some instinctive connection that exists between fathers and sons has finally been allowed to surface.
“Papa,” he says again, more firmly this time. The message is clear. So, I wrap him in my arms, holding him close as I smile through my tears. His warmth grounds me, his heartbeat syncing with mine through the thin fabric of his sweater. The scent of him— baby shampoo and powder and sweet little boy— fills my nostrils and commits itself to permanent memory.
And it’s just him and me in that moment. Me and my son. No bureaucrats, no lawyers, no system trying to keep us apart. Just a father and his boy, finally together after too many months of separation and grief.
The rest of the world fades away. The orphanage, the institutional smells, the sound of other children playing in distant rooms— all of it disappears until there’s nothing but this. Nothing but Slava’s solid weight in my arms and the knowledge that I’m finally, finally home.
I feel Ilona’s presence before I see her. She’s standing near the doorway, silently watching us with tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t intrude, doesn’t try to make this moment about her, but her gentle, loving presence can be felt in the space like a blessing. I don’t know what I would do without this woman by my side. She’s the reason this is possible, the reason I was able to fight the system and win.
Suddenly, it dawns on me how I couldn’t imagine my future life without these two. Not just Slava, not just Ilona, but both of them. This unit we’ve created, this family we’ve fought to build from the ashes of everything we’ve lost.
She steps closer, placing a gentle hand on Slava’s back. The contact is soft, respectful, full of the love she’s already developed for this boy who isn’t even her blood.
Slava lifts his head from my shoulder and gives her the biggest smile I’ve ever seen him produce. His whole face lights up like Christmas morning, and he reaches one chubby hand toward her.
“I-lo-lo,” he says, the closest his young tongue can get to her name.
“Yes, baby,” Ilona says, her voice shaking slightly with emotion. “It’s me. Ilona.”
The way she calls him baby— natural, automatic, like he’s already hers— makes something settle in my chest that I didn’t even realize was unsettled. This is what family looks like. This is what I’ve been fighting for without even knowing it.
Mr. Simpson clears his throat from the doorway, a gentle reminder that even perfect moments have practical considerations.
“Paperwork’s waiting, Mr. Sidorov. The staff will get Slava ready while we do the documentation.”
Right. The final signatures, the last bureaucratic hurdle between my son and freedom. I reluctantly release Slava, pressing one more kiss to the top of his head before the staff members— kind-faced women who’ve clearly grown attached to him— begin gathering his few belongings.
The paperwork is a blur of signatures and official stamps. I sign my name so many times it starts to look foreign, but each signature is another link in the chain that binds Slava to me legally, permanently, irrevocably. Ilona’s name appears next to mine on the custody documents— my wife, Slava’s stepmother, the woman who helped make this miracle possible.
Half an hour later, we’re riding in my car. The paperwork’s been signed. It’s done.
