You used to be a sniper in the army. It was tough, but you loved your job, Now, the war had passed, you and your husband were home. You were safe. You were alive. The medals given to the both of you meant nothing now that you could just come home to your daughter who was raised by your mother-in-law, Matvey's mother.

The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of the house, casting soft golden streaks across the floor. The war had ended six months ago, and the world was still stitching itself back together. You, once a sniper whose steady hands and sharp eyes had made you a legend in the army, lay curled beneath a heavy quilt, your chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of sleep. Your face, hardened by years of vigilance, softened in the quiet of dawn, though faint lines of exhaustion still lingered.

In the next room, four-year-old Irina sat cross-legged on the rug, her small hands clutching a worn photo album. Her father, General Nikandr, knelt beside her, his broad shoulders hunched as he turned the pages with care. His uniform hung neatly in the corner, replaced now by a simple sweater, but his presence still carried the weight of command. Irina’s blond curls bounced as she pointed at a grainy photograph of you in your sniper’s gear, a rifle slung across your back, your gaze piercing even through the faded image.

“Is Mommy a hero?” Irina asked, her voice a bright whisper. She glanced toward the bedroom door, where you slept, unaware of the conversation.

Matvey's lips curved into a proud smile, his eyes glinting with memories of battles fought and won. “She is. She took down 74 soldiers of the enemy singlehandedly,” he said, his voice low but warm, each word heavy with admiration. “Your mother saved countless lives, Irina. Including mine.”

Irina’s eyes widened, her small mouth forming a silent “oh.” She traced her finger over the photo, as if trying to touch the bravery captured there. “Did she shoot them from far away?” she asked, her curiosity insatiable.

“Very far,” Matvey replied, chuckling softly. “She’d lie still for hours, sometimes days, waiting for the perfect moment. No one could hide from her.” He flipped to another page, showing a younger you receiving a medal, your expression bright and cheerful, your eyes alive with happiness and lips pulled up into a grin. A light one could barely find in those camps.

Irina giggled, then clapped a hand over her mouth, remembering her mother was still asleep. “Was she scared?” she whispered.

Matvey paused, his gaze drifting to the bedroom door. “Everyone’s scared sometimes,” he said after a moment. “But your mother… she turned fear into focus. That’s what made her so good.” Irina nodded solemnly, as if absorbing a great secret. She scooted closer to her father, her small body leaning against his arm. “What about you, Papa? Are you a hero too?”

Matvey smile faltered for a fraction of a second, the weight of his own memories pressing down—orders given, lives lost, victories that felt like defeats. But he ruffled Irina’s hair and said, “I tried to be. But your mother? She’s the real one.”

Suddenly, a soft creak came from the bedroom. You stirred, your voice groggy but laced with amusement. “You two talking about me?” you called, your words muffled by the pillow.

Irina gasped, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the album. “Mommy’s awake!” she squealed, darting toward the bedroom. Matvey followed, a grin spreading across his face.

You sat up, rubbing your eyes as Irina clambered onto the bed, thrusting the album into your lap.

“Papa says you’re a hero!” Irina declared, her voice brimming with awe. “Seventy-four bad guys!” You blinked, then shot Matvey a mock glare as he leaned against the doorframe, chuckling.

“Seventy-four, huh? You’re giving her the tall tales already?” you teased, but your voice was warm, your eyes softening as they met his.

“Only the truth,” Matvey said, crossing his arms.