Dima
DimaNatasha squeezes my hand as we stand with Nikolai in front of the door to the apartment where we grew up.
I glance at my twin, my stomach a tight drum, guilt and shame crowding me from all directions.
He shrugs. “It will be what it will be.”
Right.
He lifts his fist and knocks at the door, then pushes it open without waiting for an answer. “Mama?”
Our mother is sitting on the couch, watching television on the giant flat-screen I arranged for her to win. She looks the same, only so much older. Wrinkles line her face, and her hair is more grey than blonde.
She shrieks, falling backward on the couch as we enter the apartment.
“We’re alive, mama. I’m sorry you thought we were dead.” I speak in Russian, getting the words out quickly in case she thinks she’s hallucinating or tha
