Page 43 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
It’s a promise to myself and to them, a way to keep our roots alive, a shield against forgetting where we come from.
Sofia leans into my hand, chattering in her sweet mix of both languages. “Mama, you say the word for apple in Russian again? Say it!”
I reply, and she repeats it, giggling. Liana joins in, showing off her careful accent, and for a moment the kitchen is filled with their laughter and the warm, bright chaos of family.
When breakfast is done, I watch them gather their blocks and drift back to their sunlit corner. I sit for a moment longer, letting the peace linger, letting myself believe that this life is realand lasting. I press my hands together, close my eyes, and offer another silent prayer of gratitude.
Every morning is a victory. Every meal we share is proof that I’ve made the right choice.
Most days, I believe in it enough to keep moving forward, enough to let myself plan for tomorrow.
After I clean up from breakfast, I herd the girls into their shoes and light sweaters, brushing knots from Sofia’s curls and pinning back Liana’s hair with a gentle hand.
They are excited for their morning at Mrs. Evans’s cottage, where there are always cookies, puzzles, and an old terrier who tolerates their hugs. Sofia asks a hundred questions on the walk over, while Liana studies the pebbles along the path. At the door, Mrs. Evans greets us with her usual warmth.
“Come in, come in, my loves!” She ruffles the girls’ hair and winks at me. “They’ll be fine, Jessa. You take your time.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Trust is hard-won, and I don’t offer it easily.
The walk to the studio is short but quiet, the breeze heavy with salt and the distant sound of waves. I keep my camera slung across my chest like armor, head down, blending in with the handful of locals out running errands or chatting on benches. I smile and nod, but never linger long enough to be remembered.
At the art studio, I am greeted by Marisol, the owner, who is always painting her own canvases in the back room, radio humming with old love songs. She glances up as I step in, wiping her hands on a paint-stained rag.
“Morning, Jessa,” she says, her accent musical, her eyes kind but never prying. “The photos from the Rodriguez wedding came out beautiful. They were thrilled.”
I relax a little, offering her a small smile. “Thank you. They were a lovely family.”
She nods, already turning back to her easel. “You have an eye for it. People feel comfortable with you. That’s rare.”
I’m grateful for her words—and more grateful that she doesn’t ask why I never let anyone take my picture. I spend the morning in the darkroom, developing film, sorting through prints for the bakery, the bait shop, the family who wanted beach portraits for a Christmas card.
The work is simple, grounding. I lose myself in the process—the red glow of the lamp, the scent of chemicals, the hush that settles over me when I am focused on the frame.
When I leave, Marisol calls, “See you next week, Jessa!” I wave, tucking a few bills into my pocket.
On the way home, I stop at the market, buying fresh bread and fruit, some cheese for the girls’ lunch. I smile at the vendor, who smiles back, and that’s the extent of our conversation. Here, I am known just enough to belong, but never enough to be remembered for long.
In the afternoon, I set up my laptop at the kitchen table. The girls are home, sprawled on the floor with coloring books and blocks. I teach English online to students across the world, careful to keep my background blurred, careful never to give away more than I must. My voice is calm and steady as I explain grammar and pronunciation, answer questions about idioms, and encourage shy learners to speak up.
Between lessons, I watch Liana draw careful lines in her coloring book, tongue between her teeth in concentration. Sofia sprawls on her stomach, coloring a sun that spills off the page in wild, joyful yellow. Sometimes they fight, but mostly they share giggles and secret stories, inventing games with their blocks.
I’m aware, always, of how fragile this normalcy is, but I let myself lean in to the routine. Honest work. Predictable days. The simple satisfaction of making a home that feels like mine.
Dinner is soup and bread, cut fruit and soft cheese. The girls chatter through the meal, Sofia telling a story about the neighbor’s dog chasing its tail, Liana correcting her with gentle authority. I listen, joining in their laughter, letting the worries of the world fall away.
After dinner, we clear the table together and spread out on the living room floor with crayons and scraps of paper. Sofia’s drawings are all bold colors and wild shapes: purple trees, pink suns, smiling cats with crooked tails. Liana’s are careful, almost architectural, her houses and flowers always precise, her letters neatly printed in Russian and English.
I draw with them, making silly faces and lopsided hearts, treasuring the way their creativity spills across the room.
Bath time is chaos—water everywhere, giggles and shrieks echoing off the tile. I wash their hair, helping them count in Russian, then wrap them in fluffy towels. Teeth are brushed, pajamas pulled on, and we settle into the big bed beneath the faded quilt. They insist on sharing a bed, tangling together like kittens, Sofia’s head always finding Liana’s shoulder.
I sit between them, reading fairy tales. One night in English, the next in Russian, my voice rising and falling, making them laugh with silly voices or gasp at the suspense. I see theireyes grow heavy, their bodies relaxing into the stories and the softness of home.
When the last page is turned, I tuck Sofia’s curls behind her ear, kiss Liana’s cool forehead. “Good night, my loves,” I whisper, voice thick with gratitude. “Sleep well.”
Their eyes flutter closed, hands finding each other in the dark.
I linger by the door, hand pressed to my chest, listening to the sound of their whispers, those sleepy secrets only sisters share. My heart aches with love, fierce and protective. I have built this world for them, brick by careful brick, every choice a shield against the past.
