Page 22 of Vitaly

But in this moment, one memory sticks out amongst the rest.

Vitaly

Fifteen years ago

“Aye!”Mama startles as she turns toward me, hot oil sizzling in the pan at her back. She swats my flour covered hand. “What are you doing? Feeding mice?”

I let out an exasperated sigh and allow my shoulders to sag. “What?Whatam I doing wrong now?”

“This dough?” She pulls up the dough I was just flattening before wiggling it in front of my face. “Way too thin.” She bundles it up in her palm and tosses it down on the counter. “Try again.”

Throwing my head back, I grind my teeth while glaring up at the ceiling. Mama goes back to the pan while I bring my eyes down to glare at her back.

“Fucking pointless,” I mutter, shaking my head as I go back to the dough on the counter.

Something flat slaps the back of my head and jerks me upright. “Ow.” I touch the back of my head as I turn. “What the hell?”

“Mouth,” she chides, stabbing the spatula in my face.

Lowering my hand from my head, I wave it around the kitchen. “Why am I even in here, Mama? What is the point in forcing me to make dinner?”

“Forcing you?” She rolls her eyes and turns around to shut off the burner. When she faces me, she sets the spatula on the counter. “I’mteachingyou,synok.”

“Why?” I groan, my nose wrinkled.

She stares at me a few moments, her eyes wide before she puts a hand to her forehead and mutters something under her breath in Russian.

“I get a wife when I turn eighteen, don’t I? There are other things I could be doing now. This is a waste of time.”

“Why do you say it like that?” she asks, her hand falling away from her face.

“Like what?”

“Like you're being gifted slave.”

“Like I’m being giftedaslave. You forgot the article.”

Her narrowed eyes and pursed lips push my grin down.

“Jeez, I’m kidding.”

Instead of continuing her lecture, she bats me out of the way to start rolling out the dough she assigned me to. Her clenched jaw sticks out, and her lips look primed for snapping at the slightest indiscretion.

I consider bolting. She’s giving me an out by taking over my job, so I may as well, but I know she’d only be angrier.

I run my hand through my hair, dusting it with flour, and tap my teeth together while looking between the exit and the pan on the stove.

When Mama’s movements stop, I turn back to her.

“I want you to imagine…” she begins, her voice low. “You’re taken to new country where you barely speak language… You live in new house with new parents and spouse allowed to treat you however they choose… You cook food, you dust house, you live your life as servant, all so you can give life to spoiled boy who believes learning your work is beneath him… Imagine, for moment, what that feels like.”

“Mama…” My hand hovers inches from her arm as I let my mouth hang, unsure of what to say.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry they did that to you. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me.

She gives a wave of her hand to dismiss whatever I’m about to say then continues with the dough.

---