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When Irina was 20 she was with child. Her first one. 

And she was so, so very scared. A year into the life of a wife, now she was being thrown into the shoes of a mother. But Grigori seemed elated, as capable as he was of showing this joy of course. So she thought she could have this one thing, before her body grew to accommodate a new life, she wanted to ice skate. She missed it.

Irina still kept her skates, in a little box she took with her when she moved in. Opening her closet, she reached to the back  where the box was laying.  A layer of dust had fallen on it, which she wiped as she opened the lid. There they were, stark white and shining silver. Her heart clenched as a small smile pulled at her cheeks. Skates in hand she left the house, following trail to the little lake that started this journey so long ago. 

When she arrived there, she quickly shed off her shoes and laced up her skates. The second her feet touched the ice, Irina felt her shoulders relax. She moved along the lake, wind blowing, the smell of snow filling up her lungs, a sense of calm getting to her head.

She skated and she felt free.

Like a princess. She thought.

Minutes passed or maybe even hours, when her calm was shattered. 

“Irina!” a yell pierced through the wind, her heart skipping in fear as a cold feeling washed over her. Shoulders tensing she followed the sound to an angry Grigori standing near the ice. Before she knew it her feet led her to her husband. She doesn’t remember much of that night, an arm yanking her out of the ice as she wobbled from the speed with which she was pulled from on normal ground. She felt as if she was stuck in place as water lapped up her legs quickly.

By the time she would return to that house, she would be drowning in it. She thought.

You are of no use to me if you cannot bear my children-

Irina wanted to close her eyes and let it pull her under.

Nine months later a boy was born, strong and healthy. Grigori was proud, a son is all he wanted. A son bears your legacy and your name. 

Alexei cried and so did Irina.

When Irina was 24 she was pregnant with her second child. Alexei was growing into a fine young man. She loved her son, but most days Grigori took him along to teach him about his role young. Tutors, schools, anything to ensure he turned into the man Grigori wanted him to be, so Irina wasn’t able to see him as much.

However with her husband handling Alexei, Irina had more free time than ever. She hadn’t skated since that fateful day, hadn’t been brave enough to try.

But something was pulling her today. With Grigori out of the house she took out her little box, gathered her skates in a bag and trailed to the lake. 

Take off your shoes, put on your skates. Lace. Get up on wobbly legs and skate.

Skate and skate and skate. For the first time in years Irina smiled for herself as she felt her curls flailing in the wind. The cold air hugged her.

Maybe I’ll meet up with Alyona today.

On the 15th of June in 1991, in a corner of Moscow, a life was born. Bundled up in blankets and sheets, the walls of the house soaked up the cries of a newborn baby boy. When put in the arms of his mother, peace fell across the room.

Quiet, calm peace. 

Quiet, calm Irina.

And bright, beautiful Ilya.

It may have been cold in Russia but the sun pushed through the fog and the clouds just in time to reflect against soft, blonde curls and stark green eyes.

A boy may be the son of Russia, but you Ilya Rozanov, you shall be mine.

Irina Rozanova smiled when green eyes pierced hers as she brushed their noses together. Cooing spread across her room and her heart kept beating.

When Ilya was 7 years old, he remembers waking up to the sound of his mama’s voice. Gentle hands pet his head as a tranquil voice urged him to wake up. He remembers the innate joy he would get whenever Irina would be in the same room. His little body barely contained it, felt it seeping out of his pores. Ilya hopes that on those days his mama also felt it.

“Come on, mama’s gonna show you her third favorite thing ever.” Irina was already walking up to the closet to pick an outfit for her son. She bundled up that baby as if he was planning on skating to Antarctica, not a small lake near the neighborhood.

Ilya remembers his brain catching onto the words. “What’s number one mama?” Irina leaned down, smiled as she pressed a big wet kiss on his forehead. As soon as Ilya had started squirming with echoes of ewws and nos, Irina brought him into a hug, blowing raspberries on his tummy. 

“You-” another kiss followed, as giggles surrounded the air.  “and-” soft hands touched feathery, tightly coiled curls “Alexei, of course.”

She helped him quickly get his shoes on and they started their walk towards the lake. Irina held his hand on one side and a small, pretty bag on the other.

The first time Ilya saw people ice skating, he thought they were flying. The blinding white of the snow on the ground, the trees and the smell of it in the air made it feel like magic was involved. His mom confidently walked towards a small stand with a man inside and started speaking to him and he would’ve quickly noticed that she was renting a pair of small skates for him, if he wasn’t mesmerized by everything happening. By the time he turned around to look at his mom, Ilya was led onto a small ledge as Irina took off his small boots and exchanged them for skates. As soon as she was done with him, Irina started putting on her own skates, hands lacing quickly in a familiar manner, as if she’d done this many times, he realizes now. 

That day Ilya Rozanov learned how to skate, and seeing the joy it brought his mama, he learned what it meant to love something with your whole heart.

Like a prince, Irina had thought.

When Ilya was 12 years old, he found Irina Rozanova on the bathroom floor of their mansion dead. In the moment, he didn’t really understand what was happening. 

Having realized the raw talent Ilya held for skating, Grigori had quickly put him into hockey programs, where tutors and trainers whispered praise and a promising career. So that day his father was supposed to be meeting with a good friend to discuss Ilya’s future. That day he was supposed to be going with them, but Ilya had learned how to fake a cold young. A cough here and there, a runny nose faked by a bit of crying and a few convincing sneezes were all it took for him to be told to stay at home to get better, as he had a match in the following days. He hadn’t seen his mama since yesterday, already missing her calming hand pushing back on his hair and holding the nape of his neck, so he had a plan. Act sick and you’ll have the whole day with mama. It’d be a surprise.

When Grigori’s and Alexei’s voices had lowered to the first floor and he could hear them put on their shoes and coats and make sure they had everything, he had forgone his slippers for his thick socks in order to maximise speed and silence to reach his mom’s bedroom. 

Ilya quietly pushed the door handle, hoping the creaking of the door didn’t reach the voices downstairs. He bypassed clothes and small pieces of paper that littered the floor to look into the bed, where his mama had been staying more and more of the last few years. When he didn’t find her there, he ran to the bathroom, excitedly opening the door, forgetting to knock, something Irina and Alyona had been trying to grill into his head.

However, when he walked in he didn’t see his beautiful mother getting ready for the day. He saw her laying on the ground. Maybe in the moment he wasn’t thinking, but sometimes Ilya is sure that in the back of his mind, he already knew right then and there, that his mother was dead. He remembers flying to her side. She was so cold, and limp and unresponsive. His eyes quickly reached up petting her hair that looked dull in the lighting of the bathroom. He thinks he might’ve been shaking but he didn’t know. 

“Mama.” his left hand went at the nape of her neck. Her eyes had a wet sheen to them, almost like she was crying, but now the light didn’t reflect like it used to.

“Mama. Mama, wake up. Wake up.” he fuzzily remembers slowly losing his composure. Little hands shaking her. He recalls vaguely, a loud noise, almost like an alarm surrounding him and tears obstructing his eyes. The sound of footsteps rushing upstairs, soon enough, filling his view.

Distantly he remembers thinking ‘Huh, they hadn’t left yet.’

He remembers with a heart cleaved in two, that the thing that was screaming was him. 

She fell, she didn’t get up, she couldn’t try anymore. She never skated again.

On January 24 2003, Irina Rozanova had an accident. She accidentally swallowed a bottle of pills.

Maybe only one life was lost that morning in Moscow, but two hearts stopped beating. 

He didn’t remember much else of that day.