Page 55 of Porcelain Vows

I want to scream the words, but I don’t, pinching my lips together instead.

He notices my reaction— Aleksei notices everything— and sighs, a soft exhale of frustration. “Is there anything I can do? A blanket for her? Maybe something for you to eat?”

I shake my head, focusing on Polina’s rhythmic suckling, the warm weight of her against my chest. Safer territory than meeting his eyes.

He exhales another breath, and I can practically feel the frustration radiating from him. Aleksei Tarasov is not a tolerant man. I can feel the toll this is taking on him. I don’t care, though. This isn’t about making him feel comfortable.

“I don’t understand what’s upsetting you, Stella.” His voice holds genuine confusion, as if my distance is a puzzle he can’t solve. “If you won’t speak, how can I help?”

“There’s nothing,” I tell him.

It’s a lie. There issomuch I could say. Except I can’t. Not without screaming abuse and throwing things at him.

“You’re angry with me,” he says. “Why?”

Perhaps because you had my father murdered?

The accusation burns in my throat, unspoken. Instead, I adjust Polina slightly, using the movement as an excuse to turn away from him.

“I’m not angry,” I say. Which is true, because what I’m feeling goes beyond mere anger into something raw and rabid that defies description. So, I keep my mouth shut because it’s safer that way. Safer for all of us.

The silence descends, heavy with all I won’t say. All he doesn’t know I know. I can feel his patience wearing thin, the controlled breathing that signals his frustration.

“This has to stop, Stella,” he says finally. “We can’t go on like this. We have a baby. We are family.” His voice softens on the last word. “Talk to me.”

Family.

The word twists in my chest. My family is dead. The family Aleksei offers is built on their graves.

Yet when I look at Polina, at her tiny fingers and rosebud mouth, the word feels right. She is my family. Undeniably. Completely.

And she is his.

This is the impossible equation I can’t solve: how to hate the father but love the daughter so completely? How to protect her from the truth without living a lie?

Aleksei watches me, waiting for a response I can’t give. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My jaw tightens with the effort of holding back words that would shatter this fragile peace we’ve built around Polina.

He stares at me for what feels like an eternity, then stands, his movement fluid despite the tension radiating from his shoulders. I feel his gaze like a physical weight, assessing, calculating.

“I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk,zaychik,” he says finally, the Russian endearment a reminder of intimacies we once shared.

As he leaves, he doesn’t fully close the door— a symbolic gesture that matches his words. An opening left for when I’m ready.

I look down at our daughter, now milk-drunk and drowsy against my breast. Her tiny lips part in a sigh of contentment, oblivious to the massive rift between her parents. She knows only that she is warm, fed, loved.

Loved by both of us, without reservation.

That’s the cruelest truth of all. Each time Aleksei touches Polina with such tenderness, I wonder how those hands can truly be capable of such love. The evidence is before me— his gentleness with her, his fierce protectiveness, the way his voice softens when he speaks her name.

I lift Polina to my shoulder, patting her back gently until she releases a surprisingly loud burp for someone so tiny.

“Oh, my goodness, baby girl,” I coo at her, feeling a rare smile form.

The familiar action centers me, reminding me that whatever else is happening, I am, first and foremost, her mother. My decisions now affect her more than me.

What terrifies me most isn’t the thought of confronting Aleksei about my parents, but the possibility that I might forgive him for Polina’s sake. That I might choose this new family over justice for my old one.

The nursery feels both sanctuary and prison as I settle deeper into the rocking chair, cradling Polina against my chest. Her breathing slows as she drifts toward sleep, her complete trust in me both a gift and a burden.

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