Page 89 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

He presses his forehead to mine. “Bratty girl.”

I kiss him, then we hear a gag from Klaus. I twist to see if he’s okay.

“Ew, not my dad.”

I snort-laugh, and even Max chuckles at his son. The begin to speak quietly about simpler things, and my mind wanders.

I hate that we lost Lev. That will never go away. I just hope that we can make the loss of him mean something.

Pasha and Klaus will live. Galina might not even scar. Not physically, anyway. My baby is safe. Maxim is safe. Our enemies are dead.

I’d like today to feel like a win, but it never will with Lev gone. Maxim said he didn’t have a family. But he had us, and I’ll do everything in my power to take care of this family.

EPILOGUE

MAXIM

I don’t think a pakhan becomes accustomed to joy. But I’m trying.

I stand at the edge of my own garden on a golden September afternoon, and I watch it happen around me. My life has become a series of ordinary miracles I thought I would never have again.

We tore down much of the estate over the winter. The old rooms were demolished, and with them, their terrible memories. Now, there are wide windows. A kitchen Galina designed herself. A nursery painted the butter yellow Thea deliberated over in the paint aisle for a full hour.

I didn’t know paint took that long to choose, but according to her, it was all that mattered. Until the next decision, anyway.

On the lawn, sixty people have gathered to celebrate one year of our daughter, Valeria Rose Vernigora. She’s currently smearing lavender frosting into her own brown curls with the focus of a soprano at the height of her aria.

Everyone came.

Niklaus is here, thinner than before and quieter in a way that suits him. He does card tricks for a cluster of delighted children. His hands shook for months after the surgery, but he swears the tricks have helped them become steady again. He lives in the city and calls every week if we do not see each other. We argue about the business like men who are learning, with a great deal of profanity, how to be father and son.

Our relationship isn’t repaired. ‘Repaired’ is the wrong word for something that never truly existed initially. Instead, it’s being constructed, plank by plank, for the first time. Some weeks, the structure groans under the weight of decades of neglect. But it still stands, and that resilience exceeds my expectations of what I thought I’d have with him.

As the children clear out for cake, I tell him, “I have a new daughter and an old son.”

He laughs heartily. “And this old dog learned some new tricks. Can I show you?” He holds up the deck.

“Certainly.”

He shuffles, creating a bridge in the air with the cards, before stacking them once more. “That’s a tough one. Needs a lot of dexterity.”

“Impressive. Still struggling with the nerve damage?”

He nods and sighs. “Yeah, I get that the doctors were more worried about the lung than my nerves, but if they had gotten to them faster…” He shrugs. It’s still a little lopsided, thanks to those damaged nerves. “But they kept me alive, and that’s what I try to focus on.”

“That’s the right attitude. Still going to Geneva for Doctor Mueller?”

His chuckle better. Firmer than before all the breathing therapy. “Never thought I’d voluntarily go back to Switzerland, but yes. Next Friday. Thanks for getting me in with him.”

“Of course. Get some cake. You’re too skinny.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” With that, he’s off to the cake table.

Pasha is over by the drinks table, sharing a laugh. He’s standing quite close to a sharp-eyed, handsome young man from Osaka whom he hasn’t introduced me to yet. That’s alright—I can see the connection, and I’m genuinely happy for him.

But I’d better get an introduction if it turns serious. Pasha’s family is in Leningrad. Someone must grill his prospective boyfriend. It might as well be me.

Galina is omnipresent, overseeing the caterers, intermittently shedding tears into an elegant handkerchief while feigning indifference. As if she has not doted on Valeria at every possible chance.