Page 41 of Merciless Union
I gently lay into her arms. She cradles my head, stroking my hair.
“I need to know I’m not crazy,” I say.
“What makes you say that?”
I snuggle into her arms. “Mom, this is uncomfortable for me to talk about with you, but I need to talk about it.”
“You can talk to me about anything, honey.” She leans down and kisses my head. “I’m always here for you, no matter how old you get.”
If only that were true. My mom only has a few months left. She won’t be around to see me get old.
I push those thoughts from my mind as I reply. “He … likes to have sex in only one position. From behind.”
I feel her still before she says, “Oh.”
“Yeah. But there’s other positions, correct? I know there are.”
“Of course, there are, honey. Why? Does he refuse to do anything else?”
I sit up. “Exactly. It’s like he only wants me for my body and doesn’t want to see me for all of me. He hadn’t even properly kissed me yet. He has all these walls up, and he’s keeping me at arm’s length. I feel so alone.”
My mother smiles sadly, tears springing from her eyes. “You’re never alone. You always have me and your father.”
“But what can I do about Maxim? How can I make him open up to me?”
“You just have to be patient. And continue doing what you’re doing. Demand respect. You deserve it. These mafia men think us women are disposable—the only good thing about us are our looks and ability to carry children. But I’ve always thought that was bullshit.”
I raise an eyebrow. My mom rarely curses.
“Your father,” she continues, “has only ever treated me with kindness in all the years we’ve been married. You have a right to that, too. I trust you’ll find that in your marriage.”
“I hope so.”
“Trust—” she starts to say when a huge cough racks her body.
“Mom?” I stand up, startled.
She continues coughing, then suddenly, a splatter of blood passes her lips, landing on the blanket.
“Dad!” I scream for him, while rubbing my mom’s back. “Mom, you’re going to be ok. I promise.”
My father bursts into the room and rushes to her side, helping her to lay on her side. “I’m calling for the doctor.” He fumbles with his phone, dialing the number. Once the doctor answers, he explains the situation. “He’s on his way,” he tells me.
I hold onto my mom as she starts coughing up even more blood. “Is she dying?” When my father doesn’t answer, I scream at him, “Is she dying?”
“Arina,” he says, cupping my face. “I don’t know. We have to have faith.”
I sob as I cradle my mom’s frail body against mine, praying she makes it through this.
The doctor arrives a while later and tells us to give him space.
I pace the hallway, waiting for news. My father leans against the stairwell, his head hanging low.
After a few minutes, the doctor comes back out, shaking his head. Any hope that I had crumbles. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t anything I could do for her, except ease her pain. She’s gone.”
She’s gone.
Just like that.
