The house is too quiet when I enter. Security cameras track my movement, but even they seem judgmental tonight. I step into the kitchen and—
“Enjoy your big night out?”
A light clicks on, and there she is: my babushka, perched on her favorite stool like a czarina holding court. The scent of honey cake mingles with the patchouli incense she burns for her arthritis, creating a cloud of nostalgia that makes my chest ache.
“You’re drunk.” She doesn’t look up from slicing the medovik, each layer precise despite her trembling hands.
“Not drunk enough for this; that’s for damn sure.”
“Sit.” She pushes a plate toward me. “Eat.”
I obey because refusing her is like refusing gravity—pointless and exhausting. Plus, I’m f*****g starved.
The cake is perfect, sweet and dense, but it sits in my st
