The silence that followed my request for coffee was not uncomfortable, but rather… charged. It was a silence filled with the unspoken, a tangible shift in the very air of the small, warm kitchen. Natalia—Nadia—moved with a new energy, a purpose that had been absent moments before. The slumped shoulders were now set with determination, the sad eyes now alight with a frantic, joyful need to *do* something, to solidify this fragile, newfound connection before it could vanish.
The kettle was placed on the stove with a soft clink of metal on ceramic. The click of the igniter was followed by the low whump of the gas flame catching, a sound so domestic and normal it felt profound.
While the water heated, she turned to a high cupboard, the one I now knew was her secret stash. She brought down the small, unlabeled tin with a reverence usually reserved for holy relics. The lid came off with a faint pop, releasing the rich, dark, intoxicating aroma of real coffee beans. It was a smell that spoke of mornings, of wakefulness, of luxury in this cramped apartment.
She didn't use the pre-ground stuff everyone else used. She took a small hand grinder from another cupboard, its wooden handle worn smooth with use. The sound of grinding filled the kitchen, a rhythmic, crunchy whir-whir-whir that was both soothing and anticipatory.
Once the coffee was ground, she prepared a French press, her movements efficient and practiced. The boiling water hissed as it poured over the grounds, and the kitchen filled with the deep, earthy scent of brewing coffee. As it steeped, she didn't stop. She brought out a small ceramic teapot, a delicate thing painted with faded blue flowers, and prepared her own tea with the same focused care.
But she wasn't done. With a shy, almost girlish smile, she opened a cookie jar shaped like a cartoon cat and arranged a stack of homemade chocolate chip cookies on a small plate. They were uneven, clearly hand-shaped, with generous chunks of chocolate peeking out from their golden-brown surfaces. She brought everything to the table on a small tray: my coffee, black and steaming in a large mug, her teapot with a matching cup, and the plate of cookies placed precisely between us.
"I remember," she said, her voice softer now, laced with a nostalgic warmth as she sat down.
"You used to devour these when you were little. You'd sit right there," she pointed to a small chair in the corner,
"And you'd have crumbs all over your face and your hands would be sticky. You'd smile so wide…" Her own smile was wistful, her eyes looking at a memory only she could see. "It was my greatest joy, seeing you so happy…"
I looked at the cookie. It was a simple thing, a piece of baked dough, but in that moment, it felt like a key. I picked one up. It was still slightly warm, and it felt soft and fragile in my fingers. I brought it to my mouth and took a bite.
The flavor exploded on my tongue. It was perfect. The butteriness was rich and real, not the artificial taste of the packaged cookies I'd lived on in my old life. The brown sugar gave it a deep molasses warmth, and the chocolate chunks melted instantly, rich and slightly bitter against the sweet dough. The texture was a masterpiece—crisp at the very edges, chewy in the middle, the oats within giving it a heartiness that was utterly satisfying. It wasn't just a cookie. It was a memory I'd never had, a childhood comfort I'd never known, and it was the best damn thing I'd ever tasted. I finished the bite and looked at her, my expression one of genuine awe.
"Grandma," I said, and I saw her eyes shimmer at the title, spoken without venom for the first time in years.
"This is… incredible. It's delicious…and to be honest, I still love it." The radiant smile that broke across her face could have powered the entire city block. It was a sunrise after a long, long night.
"Oh, I'm so glad! I just… I wasn't sure if your tastes had changed." She looked down at her teacup, suddenly shy. "It's been so long since we just… talked like this. I've missed this."
Her words, so simple and heartfelt, were a dagger twisting in my gut. The contrast was too sharp, too painful. This woman, offering nothing but love and homemade cookies, had been met with nothing but cruelty for years.
I saw my old life flash before my eyes—not the gas station, but the emptiness of it. The silent apartment, the microwave dinners for one, the lonely holidays. I had longed for this. I had ached for the messy, complicated, warm chaos of a family. I would have given anything for a grandmother to bake me cookies, for a mother to worry over me, for a family to share a cramped dinner table with.
And him… the old Sael. He'd had it all. This beautiful, devoted woman was his blood, had raised him, loved him unconditionally, and he had thrown it in her face. He'd been given the exact treasure I'd dreamed of, and he'd treated it like garbage.
The shame wasn't just for his actions; it was a personal, visceral disgust. He was a part of me now, and his legacy was one of pathetic, wasteful ingratitude. I couldn't let it stand. The coffee, the cookies, the hopeful look in her eyes—it demanded a reckoning.
I set my half-eaten cookie down carefully on the plate. I took a slow breath, steadying myself. The hum of the refrigerator seemed to grow louder in the pause. I reached my hand across the small table, past the plate of cookies, and gently covered her hand where it rested beside her teacup. Her skin was warm, slightly rough from a lifetime of work.
She flinched, just a tiny, instinctive jerk, her eyes snapping up to meet mine in surprise. She was so used to rejection that even a gentle touch was a shock.
I looked her directly in those deep, dark eyes, willing her to see the sincerity in mine.
"Grandma… Nadia," I began, my voice low but clear, each word chosen with care.
"I need to apologize to you. I have… I have been so cold. So unbelievably harsh and unfair to you. I've pushed you away when all you've ever done is try to love me." I squeezed her hand gently.
"I am so sorry. For all of it. You didn't deserve any of that. Not a single moment of it."
The words hung in the air between us, a formal, earnest repudiation of the old Sael's entire existence. It was an apology for a lifetime of wounds, and I offered it sincerely with everything I had.
His hand was warm on hers. The sensation was so foreign, so utterly unexpected, that a part of her braced for the inevitable cruelty. For the slap that sometimes followed a tender moment, for the hissed insult that would put her back in her place. It was the pattern. A flicker of hope, then a crushing rejection.
But his touch remained. It was gentle. Firm. And his words…
"I need to apologize to you."
Natalia Vetrova felt the world narrow to the point of contact between their skin. The warmth of his hand seemed to travel up her arm, flooding into the cold, hollow space that had taken root in her chest so long ago. She couldn't speak. She could only look into his eyes—those same eyes that had once looked at her with pure, unadulterated adoration, then for years with nothing but seething contempt, and now… now with a sincerity that made her heart clench.
The apology unfolded, each word a balm and a brand, healing and hurting all at once because it made her remember everything it was meant to erase.
I have been so cold.
The memory surfaced, unbidden. Him at fourteen, flinching away from her hug at his father's funeral. She had thought it was grief. They were all drowning in it. But the flinch never stopped. It became his norms. Every offered embrace was met with a stiffening of his shoulders, a turning away of his head. The warmth of her son's house, once filled with childish laughter, began to cool, degree by painful degree.
So unbelievably harsh and unfair to you.
The images came in a sickening rush. Him, at sixteen, sneering at the dinner she'd spent hours preparing. "I'm not eating this slop," he'd said, his voice dripping with a venom that was so at odds with his soft, pretty features. He'd started buying his own food with their money, eating alone in his room, leaving his full plate to be thrown away. The words were tiny knives, each one a paper cut on her soul. "Don't touch my stuff." "You're so annoying.""Why can't you just leave me alone?"
I've pushed you away when all you've ever done is try to love me.
This was the deepest cut. Because her love was all she had ever had to give. After her son—her strong, beautiful boy—was taken from her, Sael was all that remained. He was the living, breathing piece of her child. She had poured every ounce of her love into him, swaddled him in it, hoping it would be enough armor against the world. And he had treated that love like a burden. He had shrugged it off; let it fall to the floor and trampled it underfoot. She had offered him her heart, and he had used it as a doormat.
Her mind drifted back, through the fog of years, to the beginning. Her Sael. Her malysh. The light of her life. He had been such a happy baby, with a gummy smile that could light up the darkest day. She had been the one to rock him to sleep when Cathy was exhausted, the one to sing him old Russian lullabies. She had taught him how to tie his shoes, her hands over his small, clumsy ones. He would follow her around the apartment, his little hand clutching the hem of her skirt, his eyes full of unwavering trust.
When his father, her son, died, a part of that light had gone out in the boy. She had understood. She had grieved too. But then the changes started. The distance became a chasm. The soft, bright child began to curdle into something bitter and closed off. The clothes became more feminine, the makeup appeared. At first, they'd all tried to be supportive.
"He's finding himself," Cathy had said, her voice trembling with forced optimism. Vera had just nodded, her protective instincts on high alert.
But it wasn't about finding himself. It was about building a fortress a giant wall. And everyone inside the apartment was suddenly the enemy. The hugs stopped. The conversations became monosyllabic grunts or, worse, sharp-tongued critiques. He became a ghost in their home, a beautiful, sad phantom who left a trail of disdain in his wake.
They all blamed themselves. Cathy wept in her room, wondering where she had failed as a mother. Vera would come home from the diner, her face tight with worry, and try to engage him with food, with quiet conversation, only to be met with a wall of silence. Natalia blamed herself most of all. Had she smothered him? Loved him too much? Not enough? They tiptoed around him, their voices hushed, their happiness muted, afraid that any sudden noise would shatter the fragile, angry creature he had become. He was too precious, too important to lose completely, so they endured the slow death of their family warmth, hoping for a miracle.
Then the miracle had become a nightmare.
The day Miss Reis had come, her posture rigid, her clipboard held like a shield. The woman had stated the match with the cold finality of a judge pronouncing a sentence. Genetic compatibility. Optimal for viable offspring. Mandated compliance.
Natalia's own shock had been a cold wave. Her? With her own grandson? The societal norms of this world were one thing, a fact of life she accepted. But the reality of it being her… it was surreal. Her first emotion had been a confusing mix of horror and a strange, deep-seated, biological thrill that she immediately suppressed as shameful.
But she never got to process it. Sael's reaction was instantaneous and volcanic.
He had shot to his feet, his face, usually so carefully composed, contorted in pure, unvarnished rage. He had pointed a trembling finger at her, his voice rising to a shrill scream that echoed off the cramped kitchen walls.
"You!" he had shrieked, his eyes wild. "You lusty bitch! You did this! You've always looked at me like that, haven't you? You disgusting predator! You sex fiend! You want to get your hands on me? Is that it?"
The words were physical blows. Each one landed with the force of a hammer, driving the air from her lungs. She had stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with a pain so profound it felt like her soul was being torn in two. The person she loved most in the world was looking at her as if she were filth. She was his grandmother. She had changed his diapers. And he was accusing her of… of that.
Cathy and Vera had moved then, rushing forward, their own faces pale with shock and horror. They had grabbed him, not roughly, but firmly, trying to calm the storm, to physically drag him away from the devastation he was causing. "Sael, stop it! That's enough!" Cathy had cried, her voice breaking.
He had fought them, his words becoming more incoherent, viler, until they finally managed to pull him, thrashing and sobbing with rage, down the hall to his room. The slam of his door was like a gunshot, the final note in the symphony of their family's destruction.
The silence that followed was the coldest she had ever felt. The apartment, their sanctuary, had become a mausoleum. The warmth was gone, replaced by a grim, heavy tension. They were all grieving. Grieving for the boy they had lost, for the future that now seemed so horrifyingly twisted. Cathy, Vera, sweet Bella, even the usually resilient Emily—they had all closed ranks around her, their silent support the only thing that kept her from shattering completely. They were all prisoners of his anger, hostages to his pain.
Then, the fear. Cathy had come to her, her face ashen, holding her wallet. "He took my card again," she'd whispered.
"But he didn't buy clothes or games. He bought… these." She'd opened her hand to reveal a bottle of sleeping pills. The bottomless terror that had opened up inside Natalia then was worse than any insult. They had all known, in that moment, what he might be planning. The air grew thick with their unspoken dread.
Yesterday, the loud thump from his room had sent a jolt of pure panic through all of them. They'd feared the worst. Finding him disoriented and sick on the floor had been, perversely, a relief. And then, finding the half-empty bottle… they had all seen it. They had all known. But they had made a silent, collective decision. To stop the bad thoughts there. To pretend. Because he was alive. He was okay.
And last night… last night he had come to dinner. He had been quiet, yes, but he was there. He ate. He didn't glare. He didn't hurl insults. For the first time in years, the dinner table hadn't felt like a battlefield. A tiny, fragile ember of hope had begun to glow in the ashes of her heart.
And now… now this.
He was holding her hand. His touch was warm. His eyes were clear and earnest. And he was apologizing. Not a mumbled, forced sorry, but a true, heartfelt apology that acknowledged every wound.
The dam within her finally broke.
A single, hot tear escaped, tracing a path through the faint lines on her cheek. Then another. She didn't sob; she wept silently, the tears falling onto the tablecloth, each one a release of years of pent-up pain, confusion, and love that had never, ever stopped. She turned her hand under his, not to pull away, but to intertwine her fingers with his, holding on as if he were a lifeline.
She saw him—truly saw him. Not the angry ghost, not the made-up femboy, but her Sael. Her handsome, beautiful boy. The light in his eyes that she thought had been extinguished forever was flickering back to life.
He had come back to her.
She couldn't form the words yet; her throat was too tight with emotion. But she nodded, squeezing his hand back, her tears a silent, radiant answer. 'I forgive you. I forgive you everything. You're back...Malysh'