Raising My Boss's Child

Chapter 4 : First meeting

Perhaps someday I'll grow accustomed to simply being a mother, but for now, every moment was thrilling. We were already on our way home from the airport, and I was telling Senya about the city where he would live.

Then I felt nervous in the courtyard. I saw a playground and realized that tomorrow I would come here to walk as a mother. And to the parks. And everywhere—everywhere.

We were riding up in the elevator, my palms were sweating, and I was even a little shaky.

"This is our home," I said to Senya as we entered the apartment. "Come, I'll show you your room."

The room had been ready for a long time; I started preparing it as soon as I knew that Senya would be mine. I tried not to make it too boyish, so it was pastel and gentle. There were almost no toys—I didn't know my child's tastes yet.

He could choose them himself. For now, there was only one plush bunny, a couple of toy cars, and a handful of blocks. Light curtains, a fluffy rug. I may not have been rich, but every detail in the room was chosen with love—I had been preparing for this moment for a long time. It seemed like many years.

"This is your room, and yours alone. But if you ever feel uncomfortable being alone, you can always come to me. I'm right next door."

I was making dinner and kept thinking that this was our first dinner together.

I was cooking for my son. This thought wouldn't fit in my head because once upon a time, I had buried my dream of becoming a mother, along with my child, whose heart had stopped beating inside me.

I kept talking to him. Softly, controlling the excitement in my voice—he needed to stay calm. Senya had to get used to me and my voice.

"What kind of food do you like?" I asked. Senya remained silent, so I smiled and answered myself, "I know that all children love junk food. I promise we will definitely eat pizza, burgers, and french fries. But not every day. Today we're having pasta with meatballs and a vegetable salad."

Not many two-year-olds speak clearly and understandably. But still, they speak. Even if they babble in their own language, they do speak.

Senya was completely silent. Sometimes it seemed to me that he was doing it on principle, just because the world he had come to had disappointed and let him down so much.

I immediately told myself—I will accept him as he is. I will love him even if he never says a word. But I am a mother, and I must help him. So we will definitely get an examination, but not now, when Senya gets used to his new life and adapts.

So, for now, I just talked. Sometimes I kept silent, letting the silence fill the pauses. I smiled. And Senya sat on a chair, again neatly placing his palms on his knees, and listened to me attentively. And he also looked at me.

That was enough for my happiness. I was melting. After all, I needed so little—just to give all the love that had accumulated in me, unclaimed and unwanted.

The plates and cutlery were on the table, we washed our hands and sat down opposite each other. During the day, we had snacked in cafes and on the plane, it was all in a hurry and inconvenient, and I helped Senya eat.

Now he sat down importantly and took a fork in his hand.

It seemed to me that he looked at it uncertainly, so I set an example and twirled the spaghetti on the fork.

Senya watched attentively and then, awkwardly and not on the first try, but he copied me. And he succeeded, and my heart was filled with pride.

"You are very smart," I praised him. "You can do anything."

Senya couldn't fall asleep on the plane, so now he started dozing off, not even finishing half of his portion. I took him to the room and reminded him:

"I'm always nearby. If you need me, come."

I was clearly not ready to sleep yet, so I cleaned up the kitchen, took care of other little things, but whatever I did, I kept interrupting myself to go and check on Senya.

The nightlight was glowing softly, Senya was sleeping on his side, with his palm tucked under his cheek, like a baby on a postcard.

I didn't think he would come to me. Before going to bed, I went to him, quietly, barely touching his skin, so as not to wake him up, kissed him on the forehead, and went to my room. And in the middle of the night, I woke up from the quiet steps of a child.

Senya came with his pillow and blanket. I didn't show him that I had woken up. He lay down on my bed, but at the very edge. As if he was sleeping with someone but also alone.

I fell asleep like that, listening to his breathing.

And the most interesting thing happened in the morning. I woke up, and I was alone in bed. My two-year-old son had gone to his room with his pillow and blanket as soon as it got light, and he decided to pretend that there had been no night wanderings.

And then I thought that Senya was very smart. And also vulnerable. Otherwise, where does a two-year-old's fear of appearing weak to someone come from?

"Good morning," I smiled as if nothing had happened. "Time to wash up and have breakfast! Then we'll go for a walk, and I'll show and tell you everything."

But everything went not according to plan. My vacation had just begun, but Bulatov called me as soon as we finished breakfast.

"Dasha," Karim began imperiously, without greeting me, "Where is the contract with 'Guarantee-Stroy'?"

"In the black folder on your desk," I replied calmly. "Rita should have put it there this morning."

"It's not there!" he proclaimed almost triumphantly. "There's only a copy! What am I supposed to do with a copy? Wipe my a*s with it?"

"I'm on vacation," I said helplessly.

"Vasilyev is in the States," Karim continued. "Should I wait for him to come back and sign it? Or should I screw up the tender, Daria? Or will you come and find me the contract?"

"Karim Bulatov..."

"I'll fire you," he replied calmly and hung up.

I knew he could fire me. He would spit on the laws; they weren't written for him. He only needed one thing—for everyone to obey him unconditionally. And I was too dependent on his job and his money.

"Our plans have changed a little," I smiled guiltily at Senya. "First, we'll go see Mom's office."

Senya didn't mind. Not because of indifference—he was just interested in everything. And the office, and the clouds in the plane's window, and the barking mongrel.

I hastily put on one of my faceless suits, and I dressed Senya in the coolest and most beautiful jeans I had found and bought a month ago. On top, a sweater, sneakers on his feet, and a hat the color of bitter chocolate—Senya's eyes. A jacket, a little lighter than the one he had arrived in—it was still warmer in our city.

"You are incredibly handsome," I concluded with satisfaction.

I could have taken him to my mother. Even though she wasn't thrilled about the idea of adoption and hadn't even called after that phone call, she wouldn't have refused to help.

But I think there are so many fears in Senya's little heart, plus he's already been abandoned—until he trusts me, I won't leave him without a good reason.

So we went to the office together. I had a tiny room adjoining Bulatov's reception area, and I went straight there, hastily nodding at all the greetings.

"Dasha!" Rita exclaimed happily. "I thought he would eat me alive!"

"He could have," I spread my hands. "Look for the contract quickly. Where did you put it?"

Only then did Rita lower her gaze and see Senya, huddled at my feet. A smile slowly blossomed on her face.

"Dasha... I congratulate you. This is wonderful!"

I allowed myself one smile in response, and then I rolled up my sleeves and started laying out folders on the table. Losing the original contract was no joke. Rita and I could have gotten into serious trouble.

I gave Senya a few sheets of paper and a pen—let him draw. After all, I wasn't used to being a mother. I had to learn.

I didn't even notice the moment when Senya quietly got up from his chair and slipped into the reception area. And from there, straight into the boss's office, fortunately, the secretary didn't see him behind her tall desk.

I turned around and saw the empty chair. My heart skipped a beat.

So many fears at once! In a second. Running out into the reception area, I tried to calm myself by thinking that there were cameras and security everywhere, but it didn't help.

I saw the open door to the boss's office, the confused secretary, and I immediately understood everything.

Senya stood in the middle of the office. Bulatov stood towering over him, looking at him as if he were an exotic creature.

Senya looked at him, tilting his head back, holding a sheet of paper covered in scribbles.

"What is this?" Karim asked, puzzled and demanding.

"Who," I corrected him. "He's alive... This is my son. His name is Senya."