The wake passed as peacefully as such gatherings can—an assembly of near-strangers united by grief for someone they had all known, if in different ways. At least there were no quarrels. My mother and father sat at opposite ends of the table, so far apart it felt almost strategic. My stepfather did his best to keep the air from growing too heavy, nursing his wine and recalling every lighthearted story about Grandma he could summon. A few of them even coaxed smiles, brief but genuine, from around the table. For a moment, it was as if she were still with us—hovering just out of sight, peeking from behind the doorway, her hands busy in the kitchen as she tried to play the perfect hostess.
When night finally settled outside, Kostya pushed back his chair, excused himself with mention of an early flight, and with a small tilt of his head, signaled for me to follow. After hasty goodbyes, I trailed him into the hallway and began digging through the mountain of coats piled high on the dresser.
"I can't find my scarf," I murmured, already sensing the futility of the task—too many layers of strangers' belongings tangled together. Kostya, with his usual quiet assurance, began sorting through the heap of scarves, hats, and gloves.
"Remind me—what color?" he asked.
"Here," came my mother's voice from behind. I hadn't even noticed her enter. She held the missing scarf in one hand, my forgotten gloves in the other.
Smiling, I took them from her and hurriedly dressed. "When did you have time to put them away?" I asked.
She merely shrugged, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Then she drew me into an embrace so fierce that the cold metal of my jacket zipper pressed sharply against my collarbone.
"Take care of yourself," Maria whispered, her breath warm against my ear.
"Always, Mom."