Page 136 of Scarlet Thorns
The child I thought was dead, living and walking and waving at strangers while his father stands behind glass like a criminal in a lineup.
It’s too much. Even for a man who’s survived wars and betrayals and enough violence to fill a graveyard. Even for someone who’s learned to bury his emotions so deep they can’t hurt him. The wall I’ve built around my heart crumbles completely, and the tears come without permission.
I collapse against the institutional wall and break down like a child myself. Great, heaving sobs tear from deep within my chest and echo off the sterile tiles. Years of suppressed grief pour out— for Galina, for Ilona, for the father I’ll never get to be, for the son who will grow up thinking he was abandoned instead of taken.
Mr. Simpson pulls a tissue from his jacket pocket and offers it without comment. When I’ve composed myself enough to look up, his expression is sympathetic but resolute.
“We men can’t be strong all the time, can we?” he says quietly.
I don’t respond. I just stare at nothing, like I’m lost in a void, in a world where my son can be with me.
Simpson’s phone rings, cutting through the moment. A blessing in disguise because I need a few moments to collect myself. He steps away to answer, his voice dropping to professional levels.
“Yes, Mr. Vorobev,” he says. “Yes, Slava’s ready.”
The name makes my head snap up, eyes narrowing on Simpson as he ends the call.
Vorobev.
I know that name— Leonid Vorobev, one of Boston’s most influential venture capitalists. Old money, legitimate business, the kind of man who collects philanthropic awards and sits on hospital boards. The perfect adoptive father for a child with a complicated past.
Mr. Simpson returns, his expression carefully neutral. “That’s all I could do for you, Mr. Sidorov. Slava’s adoptive parents are coming to take him to his new home later today.”
Later today.
In a few hours, my son will disappear into a life of privilege and proper education, designer clothes and trust funds. He’ll have everything I could never give him— safety, respectability, a future untainted by my bullshit.
Maybe it’s better this way.
“Rest assured, we carefully vetted all applicants,” Mr. Simpson continues. “He’ll be in a very good, wealthy family.”
“I… understand,” I say, although my heart doesn’t fucking understand at all. Worthless piece of meat never learned how to process emotions like this.
His hand returns to my shoulder, heavier this time. “Let him go, Mr. Sidorov. He’s going to have a great life.”
Let him go.
As if it’s that simple. As if I can just walk away from the only piece of myself that’s truly innocent. As if love can be switched off like a light when it becomes inconvenient.
My heart shatters again, finding new ways to break that I didn’t know existed.
There is nothing I can do.
Nothing.
The truth of it settles over me. All my power, all my connections, all the fear my name once commanded— none of it matters now. I am just a man whose past disqualifies him from the most fundamental human right: to raise his own child.
I straighten up, wiping the last of the tears from my face with the back of my hand. If this is goodbye, then I’ll say it with whatever dignity I have left. My son deserves better than to see his father fall apart completely.
Through the glass, Slava has gone back to practicing his steps, tottering between toys under the watchful eye of his caregiver. He’s already forgotten the man who waved at him through the window. Already moving forward into a life where I don’t exist.
Maybe that’s how it should be. Maybe some loves are too dangerous to claim, some connections too toxic to pursue. Maybe the greatest act of fatherhood I can perform is to walk away and let strangers give him the life I never could.
But as we head toward the exit, one truth burns itself into my soul with the permanence of a brand: I will remember every detail of this moment for the rest of my life.
The way he smiled.
The recognition in his eyes.
