Page 135 of Scarlet Thorns
Myflesh and blood.
Living and breathing andreal.
A young woman sits beside him— early twenties, blonde, wearing scrubs that mark her as institutional staff. She’s probably one of the volunteers, someone who spends her days caring for children whose parents can’t or won’t. The thought makes my chest tighten yet again.
Slava pushes himself up on unsteady legs, his balance uncertain but determined. He takes one wobbly step, then another, before his little legs give out and he lands hard on his diapered bottom. The impact doesn’t faze him— he just grins and pushes himself back up again, ready to try once more.
Those little legs.
The same little legs I saw kicking desperately against Galina’s dead stomach that night in Boston. The memory sucks the air from my lungs— the death, the sirens, the paramedics who told me there was no hope. But he fought then, just like he’s fighting now. Still determined to live, to stand, to move forward despite everything that happened to him.
“He started walking just a few days ago,” Mr. Simpson says beside me, his voice distant and professional.
“Is that normal for his age?” I ask, wondering if my son is unusual in any way. Because why wouldn’t I think that? Why wouldn’t I imagine that my boy would be extraordinary?
“Every child is different,” Simpson responds. “Some of our kids are walking at one, some prefer to crawl for longer, some even scoot on their bottoms until they’re two.”
“Der’mo,” I say beneath my breath. No son of mine would ever drag himself around on his ass. Never. My boy is… perfect.
I watch, almost breathless, as he tumbles, stands and falls again. Spirited. Fearless. Just as I knew he would be. I swallow hard, blinking quickly as my eyes begin to burn.
And then, as if summoned by some invisible force, Slava turns his head toward the glass. Our eyes meet through thepartition, and the world goes silent except for the sound of my heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
He stares at me with wide blue eyes— not quite my gray-blue, but close enough to be unmistakable. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving for a one-year-old. It’s like he can see straight through the glass into my soul, like he recognizes something in me that he can’t name but feels in his bones.
We stay locked like that for what feels like hours but is probably only seconds. Neither of us blinking, neither willing to break the connection. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe, and there’s a pressure behind my eyes that threatens to undo me completely.
The young woman notices Slava’s fixation and follows his gaze to the window. She can’t possibly know who I am, but she sees him staring and takes action. Gently, she reaches for his tiny hand and waves it in my direction.
“Say hello to the man,” I see her mouth move, though I can’t hear her through the soundproof barrier.
Slava gives me the faintest smile as she manipulates his little hand into a wave, but his eyes never leave mine. They’re haunted in a way that children’s eyes should never be— like somewhere deep in his developing consciousness, he knows this moment matters. Like he understands that we’re supposed to be together but can’t.
He recognizes me.
The thought leaves me reeling. This tiny boy who’s never seen my face before today, who’s been raised by strangers since birth— he knows. Somehow, he knows. Blood calls to blood. Father to son across glass and grief and all the mistakes that brought us here.
I raise my hand and wave back, trying to smile through the moisture gathering at the corners of my eyes. Without thinking, I press my fingertips against the glass as if I could somehowreach through and touch his soft skin, hold him close, whisper all the things a father should say to his child.
“That’s enough, Mr. Sidorov.” Simpson’s hand lands heavy on my shoulder. “You’re only torturing yourself.”
“Please.” The word comes out broken, ragged. I’ve stared death in the face more times than I can count, negotiated with guns pointed at my head, but nothing has ever felt as vital as this. “Let me hold him for just one minute. To say goodbye. He is my son. My own flesh and blood.”
My voice cracks on the last words. Flesh and blood— the same phrase I’ve used to justify a hundred violent acts, a thousand moral compromises. But here, with my child on the other side of the glass, it means something pure. Something worth dying for instead of killing for.
“I’m afraid you can’t, Mr. Sidorov.” His tone is final, not unkind but immovable. “I warned you this would happen. We must go. Come.”
He guides me toward the door with gentle but firm pressure. I don’t have the strength to resist— all my fight has been drained by sixty seconds of looking at my son. My legs feel like they belong to someone else as we move back into the hallway.
The corridor suddenly feels like a tomb. Every step away from that room is a step toward a future where Slava doesn’t know my name, doesn’t know I exist, doesn’t know how much his father wanted to be better than the man he turned out to be.
It’s all your fault, dolboyob.
It hits me all at once— every brutal moment of the past year crashing down like an avalanche. Galina’s death. Seeing her broken body. Meeting Ilona and thinking maybe I could have a future, something with meaning. Killing Igor Shiradze and watching Ilona’s world crumble when she learned the truth.Her pregnancy— the hope that bloomed like spring after winter. Then the miscarriage that took even that small miracle away.
And now Slava.
My son.
