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The thought doesn’t come to her right away. It begins with stray observations while keeping house – the neat row of family photographs on their mantle only including the three of them, the fact that her husband looks nothing like his daughter, neither of them ever mentioning the woman that came before her. Yor doesn’t even know her name, only that she had willed a good education for their only child.
She doesn’t ask it for a long time. It seems presumptuous, insensitive even. Loid is not really her husband and Anya not really her daughter, and she doesn’t want to intrude on what might be painful memories for both of them. She doesn’t have a right to. But like the first thoughts did, the justifications begin to creep up as well. It would only be right to know so I don’t slip up. If there were habits she had that they miss, or don’t want to see again. If there were parenting tips she left behind that could help her bond with Anya.
And the most selfish one she doesn’t dare repeat, even in her own thoughts: I want to know what she was like, compared to me.
It happens one afternoon. Yor is blatantly watching Loid help Anya with her homework, trying to tease out a resemblance in their facial features. Perhaps there is a little bit of Loid in Anya’s ears and jaw, but otherwise there is none she can see - Anya’s looks must have come entirely from her mother. Yor tries to imagine a fair woman with sea-green eyes and rose-colored hair. She wonders if Anya really is her mother's spitting image, if she’ll grow up to look just like her in adulthood.
She wonders if it makes Loid sad sometimes, to have such a visual reminder of his wife.
She wonders if she’ll be around to see Anya grow into one. And she wants, so badly, to be.
“What’s the matter, Yor?” Loid asks, jolting her out of her train of thought. Bless his heart; he’s really become quite good at reading her.
Yor takes care to notice that Anya is tensing. “I-it’s nothing!” she says. “I was just thinking.”
“Yor,” and now there is a note of insistence in his speech. He looks concerned. “You can ask me anything.” There’s some uncertainty there too, and she considers diving deeper, pushing, exploring, see if he’ll regret offering.
“Well, I–” She feels her cheeks flushing, fiddles with the locks of hair that fall around her shoulders. “I was curious…if you don’t mind me asking…” She raises her head to meet Loid’s gaze. His familiar blue eyes are warm and welcoming, inviting her to ask.
“Mama,” Anya says suddenly, coming up to Yor and placing her hands on her lap like she’s making a statement, “Mama, I really love you! It’s like you’ve been my mama forever!”
Oh. Instinctively Yor coos at the little girl. What an observant child. How did she know?
But even bent over Anya and patting her head in appreciation, Yor can tell Loid’s gaze hasn’t let up. So she takes another deep breath and grits her teeth.
“If you don’t mind me asking the both of you,” she says, slowly and more clearly this time, “Anya’s mother…what was she like?”
Both Loid and Anya snap to attention at that, and oh, does she regret asking now. “I’m sorry!” she cries, putting her hands up. “I don’t mean to intrude; I was just curious…”
Anya keeps glancing between the two of them. She can tell Loid’s noticed this too; and cuts the little girl off when it seems she’s about to speak. “Anya, do you mind going to your room for a little bit?” Loid’s voice is so kind and she feels so bad. “Your mama and I need to have a grown-up talk.”
The little girl squints at him and he looks back at her. Yor wonders if this is a private father-daughter conversation held only through the eyes. Finally, Anya accedes, beckoning Bond to come with her to her bedroom. After her lock slides shut, Loid turns to Yor.
“First, there is something I’ve been keeping from you.” He sighs, wringing his hands together. “Anya is adopted.”
“Oh.” That’s surprising.
Loid looks sheepish. “Yes, it’s – well, I wondered if you thought we didn’t look alike at all. I didn’t want you to say no to this arrangement because you thought we were…not a real father and daughter.”
“No, of course not,” she insists. “Anya adores you; it’s so obvious. You’re her real dad, even if she didn’t come from you.”
“I’m glad.” He lifts his head to smile at her, and it warms her heart. “We adopted her as a baby, and it was like she was ours from the beginning.”
There’s the lead. “We?”
“Nina. My wife.” He looks away. “She was soft and funny. But we weren’t married long, and she was sick for some time before she died. It’s also why we don’t keep photographs in the house – we don’t have that many, since she hated the thought of memorializing her sickness.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. Stupid, stupid, she thinks. Loid must have really loved her. If he does have photographs, he would want to keep them for himself. "You must really miss her."
“It’s all right.” Loid looks wistful. “I don’t want you to feel bad for asking, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. You’re Anya’s mother now; you deserve to know.”
Now, he says. The word remains in her brain, niggling.
“Does that mean…you won’t keep the photographs of me, then?” she murmurs, her voice small. She doesn’t continue the sentence, but they both know what remains unsaid – when this is over and we’ve both gone our separate ways. She hasn’t let herself think about what that world will be like. Not when she’s grown to love Anya with her whole heart and started thinking that she might want to spend time with her husband as his real wife after all.
Anya is only six. Will she remember Yor when she’s thirty, with a child of her own? Or will she just be a footnote in her childhood, a passing memory of long, black hair, the same way Yor struggles to remember her own mother and father?
Loid’s eyes widen. “I never meant to imply that, Yor.” She wagers he genuinely didn’t. Loid is a good man, and smart, and kind, and more patient with her than she deserves. “I meant what I’ve always said,” he adds. “You are a wonderful mother to Anya. I didn’t–” he trails off. “I didn’t think I would get lucky enough to find a woman willing to love her so much.”
For a moment there is silence. Loid is watching her, as if assessing her next statement. Yor steels herself and breaks it. “You know,” she begins. “My parents died when Yuri and I were young. We lost them in the war. I worked…hard for him, so much that I don’t think he remembers what they look like at all.” She twiddles her fingers, feeling suddenly bashful. “I remember them, but only a little. I…wanted to know if Anya remembered much of her because I know how that feels.”
His face softens greatly at that, and he looks contemplative for a long moment. She realizes he’s never mentioned his childhood, either, and if he’s around her age then he might also have grown up in the thick of it. She wonders how the war was for him.
And then he does something that makes her heart flip – he takes her hands in his, leans in closer. “You can be in her life as long as you want,” he declares. “In whatever way you want. I promise.” She thinks she hears desperation in his voice.
Suddenly she feels choked up. She doesn’t let herself think of the cruise ship, of the resolutions she had made on that night, nor of all the bodies that had fallen in her wake. “I want to be,” she tells him, her voice wavering. “I want Anya to have the kind of childhood I didn’t have.” I never want her to know death, or war, or killing. I want her to grow up safe, happy, and provided for.
The look in his eyes at that just about breaks her heart. “I do, too.” He’s inched closer to her now. Her traitorous brain thinks, not for the first time, that her husband is handsome, and realizes that if she wanted to kiss him, she could. For one brief, insane moment she wishes this was a real marriage, that she was his real wife, that the life they were building for Anya and each other would last forever.
A door slams open, and it’s like a bucket of cold water has been splashed on her. Silly, she thinks, mentally slapping herself. You were just talking about his dead wife.
The two of them jump apart and glance at Anya, standing in the doorway of her bedroom and looking on the verge of tears. Yor is sure her face is incredibly red.
“Mama, please don’t leave Papa,” Anya cries, running to Yor. “You take me to the park, and walk Bond with me, and we watch Bondman together, and you help clean my room, and even if you can’t help me with homework or cook good food like Papa does I know you’re a really good mama!”
“I won’t,” she tells the girl, patting her hair. My daughter. She glances at Loid so that he knows she means it, and he shoots her a little smile in acknowledgement. “I just wanted to know…so I could be a really good mama to you, too.”
“I know,” Anya says into her belly. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Anya,” Yor says softly, and means it. Tomorrow life might go on as if this conversation had never happened, and she’ll find herself navigating another ordinary day in their half-measure of a marriage. But today, she lets herself feel like another piece has fallen into place.