In just about every other way, though—i.e., the ways in which I’m currently fleeing the hospital with my baby in my arms and armed gunmen behind us—it’s a curse.
My son’s father is a killer. A beast. A monster.
How do you tell a child that?
Dima is flying down a frontage road, headed for the highway, and I realize all at once Lukas isn’t in a car seat. He’s in the front seat. With an airbag. As we speed down the road.
Dima ignores me. In fact, he pushes down on the gas a bit harder to make a point.
I reach over and grab his sleeve—which is actually my sleeve, if I’m not mistaken. Yes, I can tell from the bleach stain on the cuff that he’s wearing my favorite oversized sweatshirt. I file that away to ask about later.
“Stop the car right now!” I yell. “Or slow down, at least. We need t
