Vanya collapsed against her, legs kicking, cheeks flushed, hiccuping through laughter.
She held him close, pressed a deliberate, theatrical kiss to his dark curls, and he nuzzled against her shoulder.
I remained frozen at the edge of the room, invisible, swallowed by a tableau of domestic perfection. The jealousy and despair coiled tight in my stomach, venomous and aching.
Seraphina’s gaze flicked toward me over Vanya’s shoulder—a smirk playing at her lips. Predatory. Triumph etched into every line of her face.
She knew exactly what this looked like. She knew exactly what it did to me. Every pulse of fear, every stab of longing, she owned.
She set Vanya down gently, letting him grab her hand as she led him toward the hallway. He followed without hesitation, tiny fingers curled around hers, trusting, laughing, happy.
“Vanya,” she said, voice soft as silk, yet commanding in its sweetness, “your dad agreed I could come to your end-of-year party at school.”
Vanya squeaked with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tugged Seraphina’s hand again. “Didn’t I tell you he wouldn’t say no?” he said triumphantly. “You just have to act like my mom there, Seraphina. The teachers like it better when I have a mom.”
The words landed softly—but their weight was enormous.
Seraphina laughed, light and practiced, the sound polished to perfection.
She tilted her head, feigning offense as she placed a hand over her chest. “Act like your mom?” she said. “I thought I already was your mom.”
Vanya stopped short.
The suddenness of it made even me stiffen where I stood.
He looked up at her, his small face sobering, excitement draining away as something older and heavier took its place.
Six years old—and already burdened with truths most adults avoided. His dark brows pulled together, lips pressing into a thin line that looked painfully familiar.
“My real mom is dead,” he said simply.
No dramatics. No tears. Just fact.
“I can’t forget about her,” he continued, voice steady, resolute in a way that made my chest ache. “Ever. You understand that, right?” He paused, studying Seraphina’s face as if gauging her worthiness of the truth. “But you’ve been really good at being like a mom. Just...” He hesitated, then finished softly, “you’ll never be my actual mom. Okay?”
For the briefest fraction of a second, Seraphina’s smile faltered.
It was almost imperceptible—a flicker of tension at the corner of her mouth, a tightening of her jaw, the smallest flash of something sharp and wounded in her eyes. Porcelain cracking beneath the polish.
Then it was gone.
She smoothed her expression with effortless precision, lowering herself slightly to his height.
Her hand slid into his hair, fingers gentle. Possessive.
“Okay, sweetheart,” she said, voice warm, perfectly maternal. “I understand. I just want you to know I love you as much as any mom ever could.”
The words were chosen carefully. As much as. Not more. Not instead. But enough.
Vanya nodded, satisfied, the weight lifting from his shoulders as easily as it had arrived.
He smiled again—bright, unguarded—and resumed pulling her toward the stairs with renewed urgency.
“Come on!” he urged. “Let’s go arrange my room. My two friends are coming over soon, and it has to be perfect.”
“Of course, little man,” Seraphina said, rising smoothly. “You’re the boss.”
As she followed him, her gaze flicked back to me—slow, deliberate.