Four years later
Angelina
“Mommy.”
I look up from the juice I’m squeezing and smile when my eyes land on our three-year-old son, who’s clutching Mimi around the neck. With my dark hair and Sergei’s light eyes, he’s the perfect mix of both of us. “What is it, Sasha?”
“Daddy's sleeping awake again,” he says.
I leave the orange on the counter and cross the kitchen to crouch in front of him. “Did you try giving him a kiss to wake him up?”
“No.”
“Let’s go do it together, then. Yes?”
“Okay.” He takes my hand and leads me to the living room.
Sergei is standing in front of the window, motionless, staring at something outside. I lift our boy in my arms and come to stand in front of my husband.
“Ready?” I ask, and Sasha nods eagerly. “Okay, hold tight, just in case.”
As I lean our son tow
