Page 44 of Pregnant with Bratva Twins
In these small rituals, I find peace. I let myself believe that I can keep them safe, that happiness is possible, that the life I have built—quiet, honest, and free—is enough. Even as the night stretches on, even as shadows gather beyond our windows, I hold on to that hope.
***
Night comes quietly to our little house by the sea. The girls have long since drifted off, tangled together in sleep, their small bodies curled beneath the faded quilt that once belonged to someone else’s grandmother.
I lingered at their door until I was sure they were dreaming—Liana’s hand still holding Sofia’s, their faces soft and untroubled in the half-light.
Now I sit alone in my battered armchair near the window, my mug of chamomile tea cradled between both palms, feet tucked up beneath me for warmth. The room is dark but gentle, the only light the silver spill of moon through the curtains.
Outside, waves crash against the black sand, white foam luminous beneath the rising tide. I watch the sea, letting the rhythm calm me, letting my shoulders sink into the old cushions, the day’s tension unwinding from my muscles inch by inch.
It’s in these silent hours that the memories come. Markian’s eyes—gray, unyielding—shine back at me from Liana’s face more and more as she grows. The curve of her jaw, the way she frowns when concentrating, the seriousness she brings to every task. It’s like seeing a ghost, and some nights it nearly undoes me. Even in the cadence of their Russian, the shape of certain words, I hear his voice. Sofia is different, all wild light and sweetness, but sometimes she, too, says something that catches me off guard: a turn of phrase, a certain stubbornness that is his and not mine.
I wonder, often, what Markian would think if he could see us now. Would he feel pride at Liana’s intelligence, at Sofia’s charm? Would he smile at the way the girls run down the beach, their laughter cutting through the wind, or would he rage at all he’s lost? Sometimes I try to imagine him at our kitchen table, mug in hand, knees drawn up to make room for the girls as they tell him about their day.
I know it’s just fantasy. He’s a memory, a ghost, a shadow. I remind myself of this as often as I can:we are safe.I made sure of it. The life I’ve built for us is small, and quiet, and carefully hidden from every danger that used to stalk our days.
Still, something flickers at the edge of my peace. Some warning I cannot shake. It’s there every time a car drives down our narrow lane a little too slowly, or when a stranger lingers too long in the market.
It prickles beneath my skin when I read the local news or hear rumors about unfamiliar faces in town. The fear is always there, crouched behind hope, reminding me that peace is never a guarantee. It’s only something you earn, night after night.
I sip my tea, eyes fixed on the moonlit waves, listening for any sound out of place. My heart beats with a quiet dread that I can’t name. I press a hand to my chest, feel the steady thud beneath my skin, and whisper a silent promise to the girls sleeping just down the hall: I will never let them be taken from me.
Not by Markian, not by anyone.
Midnight creeps closer, and the house grows still. There are no more creaks, no distant voices, just the hush of wind and sea. I move through the rooms, checking locks, peering out into the yard and down the empty road. I let my eyes linger on the girls one last time, smoothing Sofia’s curls, pressing a kiss to Liana’s cool forehead. They barely stir, secure in dreams I hope are full of light.
Finally, I curl up on the sofa, old cell phone clutched in one hand, and let my mind drift. I replay every choice that brought us here. The night I ran, the days spent hiding, the names I’ve taken and shed like old skin. I think of Markian, his voice in my head and my heart, the way I once thought love could be enough to change him, or to save us both.
Sometimes I wish I could forget him entirely. Other times, I miss him so fiercely I can hardly breathe. The impossible hope and the bone-deep fear are always tangled together, an ache I’ve learned to live with.
I drift toward sleep, but something jars me—a pair of headlights sweeping across the window, too slow, too searching.The engine idles, rumbling low, sending vibrations through the floorboards. My heart leaps into my throat. I freeze, all my senses sharpened, straining for the sound of footsteps, a car door opening, voices raised.
I slip quietly to the door, keeping to the shadows, every instinct screaming for caution. The engine growls a moment longer, then finally the car pulls away, tires crunching over gravel as it disappears into the night.
The peace is broken. I do not return to sleep. Instead, I sit by the window, tea gone cold in my hands, eyes fixed on the horizon. I hold the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, not knowing if there’s anyone left I could trust enough to call.
I watch the darkness yield to the faintest blue of dawn, listen to the gentle breathing of my daughters, and count the hours until morning.
I remind myself that we are safe. I survived another night, kept my promise for one more day. I know, deep in my bones, that safety is only ever temporary. The world has a way of finding you, no matter how far you run or how carefully you hide.
Still, I hold on to hope. I watch the first light creep across the floor and promise myself that, whatever comes, I will be ready.
For Liana. For Sofia. For the small, fragile life I have fought to build and protect. I am their mother. I am their shield. I will survive for them, as long as I have to, for as long as I can.
The sky turns pale, streaked with lavender and pearl, as dawn creeps in over the restless sea. I stay by the window, knees hugged to my chest, the old phone clutched tightly in my hand.
I listen for the sound of another engine, for footsteps in the yard, but the only noise is the distant crash of the waves and the faint creak of our house settling in the cool morning air.
My mind drifts between hope and dread. I want to believe the car was nothing—a lost tourist, a local out late, someone with no interest in our lives.
Still, fear lingers, pressing against my ribs, whispering that the past can find me even here, even after years of hiding. I watch the sun lift higher, spilling light across the floor, and force myself to breathe, to focus on the present.
From down the hall, I hear a sleepy giggle. Liana’s voice is soft, followed by Sofia’s high-pitched laugh. Relief and love wash over me. I push myself up, smoothing my hair, and walk quietly to their room. They are awake, tangled together in blankets, eyes bright with the promise of a new day.
“Good morning, my loves,” I whisper, voice thick. For a moment, the fear fades, replaced by fierce determination. Whatever comes next, I will face it. I am their mother, their safety, their home.
As the first real light of morning fills our tiny house, I let myself believe—for just a little while—that we are safe, that I am strong enough to keep us together.
