Neva Altaj

“Your father would never kill a man because of me, you know.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, Mom.”

“No, honey. It isn’t,”

“Marry me,” he says, “and I’ll stop the war.”

“Lenochka . . .” Mikhail says from behind me and steps inside.

“Daddy!” The girl squeals in delight, her lips widening in a huge grin as she runs and jumps into Mikhail’s arms.

I watch in awe while he gathers her up and places a kiss on her cheek and then on her forehead, his hand caressing the back of her head the whole time. Mikhail has a child. I’m still processing the fact when she leans in and kisses him on the eyepatch, giggling, and Mikhail smiles.

I can’t stop staring, amazed at the transformation I’m witnessing. It seems like a completely different person took his place. And it’s not just the smile. The posture of his body is different, relaxed. The way he’s looking at her with such warmth . . . this man has nothing in common with the cold, controlled one I married yesterday.