“Oh, Kirochka.” Anna takes my other hand, her eyes molten, face sunken as she brushes my hair back with her soft palm. “Do you need anything?”
I do need something, but she’s not the one who can bring it to me, so I shake my head.
She continues stroking my hair and pats my face with tears rimming her eyelids. If anyone was watching this scene, they’d think Anna was my mother. It doesn’t matter that we have a different skin color or that she didn’t actually give birth to me. This woman has given me more affection than my actual mother—who’s probably doing some satanic rituals to pray for my death as we speak.
The doctor comes to check on me and helps me to sit up. He does a few tests and some speech, memory, and mobility exercises. During all the time, Anna, Karina, Viktor, and almost eve
