Page 70 of Porcelain Vows

I need a fucking drink.

I move to the cabinet near the window, where Diana has thoughtfully— or perhaps ironically— placed a bottle of vodka and glasses. I pour two shots, the familiar ritual creating a surreal sense of normalcy.

“Na zdarovye,” I say, handing him a glass.

“To health.” He smiles faintly at the irony, accepting the vodka with a trembling hand. “Yours, at least.”

We drink in unison. I watch him over the rim of my glass, noting how his throat works with difficulty, how he winces slightly at the sensation.

“So now what,” I say, not out of interest but to fill the unsettling silence. “You come here and apologize, and then what happens?”

“I die in peace,” he says, stiffening when I snort in disgust.

“You have no right to ask for peace, old man.”

“I know,” he says. “You gave me what I deserved: exile. He sets his glass down carefully. “Siberia was cold. Always cold, even in summer. But it wasn’t the cold that cut deepest. It was knowing that my own son sent me there.”

I shrug, not knowing how he expects me to respond to that.

“I don’t blame you,” he continues. “You had every reason to. But those years… they were the hardest.” He pauses, coughing slightly, before continuing. “They threw me into a labor camp, out in the middle of nowhere. Snow and ice for miles in every direction. The cold… it gets into your bones, into your soul. I spent my days chopping wood, digging trenches, doing whatever they told me to. It was brutal, mindless work, but it kept me from thinking too much. At least during the day.”

He pauses, eyes growing distant. When they meet mine again, I see a flicker of the man he used to be—the man I feared and hated.

“At night… That’s when the memories came. The fights, the drunken rages, the way I tore our family apart. In the dark, there was no escaping it. Every mistake, every hurtful word… it all came back to haunt me.”

I pour another shot, unwilling to acknowledge the hint of remorse in his voice. “Sounds like exactly what you deserved.”

“More than deserved.” He accepts the second drink, though his hand shakes so badly now that liquid sloshes over the rim. He stares down at the drops on his paper-thin skin, eyes unfocused. “I turned back to the bottle, even in exile,” he says quietly. “There’s always someone who can get you vodka, for a lot of money, of course. It helped… or at least I thought it did. But it didn’t make the regret go away. Nothing did.”

“Glad to hear it,” I mutter. What the fuck does he want from me? Tears?

Pizda!

My father looks down at his hands, now trembling more visibly. “But Siberia… it also strips you bare. When you have nothing left, no one, and the only thing to keep you warm is your own bitterness, you either break or you find a way to survive. I found a few others, men like me, broken and angry.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” I scoff.

He sighs, ignoring my outburst and emptying his glass. I fill it again, the gesture mocking him.

“I knew I was dying long before the doctors said the words. The pain in my gut… it’s been with me for years. I could have stayed there, waited for it to end, but I couldn’t. Not without trying to make things right. I found a man— a forger. He gave me a new name, new papers. It cost me everything, but I got out. Walked away like I never existed.”

My father’s eyes lock onto mine, a pleading look in them now. “It’s not Siberia that killed me, son. It’s guilt. I don’t have much time left. I know there’s no excuse for the things I’ve done, but I can’t leave this world without trying to make amends.”

Something in his tone— the raw honesty, perhaps— penetrates my carefully constructed wall of hatred. Part of me feels a surge of anger— how fucking dare he come back now, after everything he’s done? But there’s also a part of me that knows I can’t let him go, not in the state he’s in. Not like this. The bitterness and the pain, they’re still there, but so is a sense of responsibility. I don’t want to admit it, but I nod.

“You can stay,” I say abruptly, the decision forming even as the words leave my mouth. “Until… until the end. But there are conditions.”

Relief softens his features. “Anything.”

“You stay in this room unless accompanied by me or Diana. You don’t wander the property. You don’t speak to the staff. You don’t ask questions about my business or my family.”

He nods, accepting each restriction without protest. “I understand.”

“And you stay sober.” I gesture to the vodka bottle. “This was a one-time exception.”

A flicker of something— resistance, perhaps— crosses his face before resignation settles in. “I’ll try.”

“Try hard.” The threat is implicit.

---