Mikhail releases me to grab the front of his older brother’s shirt. “Don’t f**k this up, Nat.”
We get married for the second time at the base of the stairs.
While I was busy making myself look like I hadn’t spent the day ice-fishing, saving my son’s life, and then crying both horrified and happy tears, Raoul and Anatoly placed candles on every step and draped a set of extra bedsheets from the ceiling like a canopy.
It’s more than I expected. More than I need, for sure.
I would have happily made these vows to Mikhail in our bed, wrapped in each other and a sea of blankets, without any witnesses at all. The only thing that matters is the man waiting for me. And the little boy cuddled in the chair just behind him.
“You look pretty, Mama,” Dante whispers as I approach.
My heart swells an
