“Irina, careful! Don’t slip on the snow!” I called out, half-laughing, as my daughter bolted across the garden like a little rocket. Her small boots crunched on the fresh layer of white, sending up tiny flurries behind her. She didn’t even slow down—just giggled and kept running, arms flailing, cheeks already flushed pink from the cold.

It was only November, but here in Russia, winter didn’t wait. The snow had arrived early, blanketing everything in a soft, glittering silence that still felt strange to me. In my home country, snow was more of a rare guest than a constant presence. This—this endless white—was new. Beautiful, but unfamiliar.

I glanced toward the house, half-expecting to see Dimitri at the window, maybe sipping his coffee or taking a break from work. But no sign of him. Probably holed up in his office, or maybe already gone for the day. I didn’t ask. I didn’t even wonder much anymore. I’d gotten used to his absence—emotionally and physically. It was like living with a ghost who left traces of himself in the house, but never fully returned home.

Still, Irina adored him. She had this soft spot for her father that sometimes made me feel like the invisible parent. Always asking when he’d be back, always lighting up when he entered the room—those rare times he did. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. Like, honey… I’m here every single day, making sure you’re fed, loved, alive—and you still prefer the man who can barely stay in the same room for ten minutes? Frustrating didn’t even cover it.

“Mama! Mama, look!” Irina’s voice yanked me out of my thoughts. She was lying flat on her back now, arms and legs sweeping out in wide arcs, trying to make a snow angel. Her laughter rang through the chilly air like a little bell. Her nose was bright red, her gloves soaked, but she was glowing with happiness.

I couldn’t help but giggle, watching her. “Look at you, silly girl,” I muttered, shaking my head with a smile, my heart tugging with that familiar mix of warmth and ache.