This Way

6.

I would often remind myself, in the quiet moments between the chaos of my life, that it had been over two years since I last spoke to my family. It had become a secret I carried, one that lingered at the back of my mind like a heavy shadow, something I dreaded thinking about but could never completely forget.

There were nights, after Mikhail had fallen asleep and the apartment was filled with only the soft sounds of Stella's breathing, when the weight of it all would hit me. I would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how it had come to this. How had I let so much time slip away without so much as a phone call, a message, a simple "hello" to the people I once called home?

And then there were the nights when the weight became too much, and I would cry. Not loud, gut-wrenching sobs, but quiet tears—the kind that come when you're alone and there's no one to ask if you're okay. The kind of tears that linger long after they've fallen, leaving a hollow ache in their wake.

I think what hurt the most was the feeling that I had missed a chapter of my own life. My dad and I hadn't spoken since the day I left New York. There had been no words, no apology, no closure. He didn't even have the guts to say anything as I walked away from the life I knew, determined to carve out something for myself. And now, all these years later, I wondered if he ever thought about me. If he ever regretted the silence.

But I was too proud, too scared, to reach out. What if he didn't care anymore? What if I had been erased from their lives, just as easily as I had erased them from mine?

I would lie there, these thoughts swirling around me, and for a moment, it felt like I was drowning in the what-ifs. But then morning would come, and I would put on a brave face, pretending the ache wasn't there.

Every morning, as I held Stella in my arms and watched Mikhail leave for work, I couldn't help but admire him. His hair was always a little messy, his dark curls falling just over his forehead, and his smile—God, that smile—was like a secret we shared. It was as if he was telling me, "I'll be back soon," even when he had long hours of training ahead.

But every time I watched him walk out the door, the same thought crept into my mind. How did he feel about leaving his family behind in Russia? How did he manage to wake up every day in a country so far from everything he knew, with no family nearby, all for the sake of his dream? He never spoke about it, not really. I'd see glimpses of it sometimes, in the way he'd get quiet when the conversation turned to home or when we talked about Stella's first birthday and how his family wouldn't be there to see it.

I thought I'd be brave enough one day to ask him about it. To sit down and really talk, heart to heart. But I never had. Not yet, at least. Maybe because I was too scared of what he might say, or maybe because I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts of what I'd left behind.

With the wedding only two weeks away, it felt like everything was moving at a dizzying pace. There were dresses to finalize, flowers to pick, seating arrangements to figure out. Becca was a whirlwind of ideas, pushing me to make decisions I didn't feel ready for, but I let her because it kept my mind busy. Busy enough to avoid thinking about the one thing I couldn't face.

My dad.

The thought of him not being there to walk me down the aisle gnawed at me, day and night. I pictured the moment—me, standing at the back of the chapel in my perfect dress, waiting for the music to cue. But instead of my father by my side, there'd be this emptiness, this void where he should have been. It hurt more than I wanted to admit.

Every little girl dreams about her wedding day, and in those dreams, the father is always there, strong and proud, holding her hand and giving her away with a smile. But that wasn't going to happen for me. And it wasn't just because of the distance between us—it was the silence. The years that had passed without a word. The stubbornness that had kept us apart.