Sergei"Slavochka," I whisper, and my voice cracks on his name like I'm a teenager again. "It's me. Papa."His head tilts to the side, processing the word with the careful consideration of someone learning a new language. I can practically see the gears turning in his mind, connecting sounds to meanings, memories to reality.Then he murmurs, "Pa-pa."Bozhe moy.My throat closes completely, too thick with emotion to allow speech or air. This is it. This is the moment I've been fighting for, praying for, killing myself trying to reach. My son— my boy— recognizing me, claiming me, accepting me as his father."Yes," I manage to choke out. "Pa-pa."The tears I've been holding back for months finally spill over, hot tracks down my cheeks that drip off my chin because I'm not bothering to hide them. Fuck my reputation. Fuck my image as the cold, controlled, morally gray businessman. This is my son, and I'm allowed to cry when he calls me Papa.Without hesitation, he steps forward and touches
Read more