The last photo steals the air from my lungs. Nataliya stands before a quaint storefront with peeling gold letters: Babushka’s Lap. Zoya’s place. Her smile is sunlight through prison bars.
“That’s—” My throat constricts. “She looks exactly like—”
Sasha reaches past me and snaps the album shut. “I think that’s enough.”
“Because you wanted to know me. This is me.”
“This was you,” I correct. I turn to grab his wrist. He lets me take it, unresisting. “But a book of photographs and an asshole dad don’t define you any more than a closet full of princess dresses and an asshole dad define me. I didn’t want to be that anymore, so I stopped. You…” I look up at him, surprised that my eyes are filling with tears. “You don’t have to be what he wanted you to be.”
Sasha gazes down at me. It’s imposs
