I’ve turned thirty-four today. It’s very cool to have your birthday around Easter. Everything is in bloom as if nature wants to mark the occasion, and on a good year, one can even picnic on the Garden Ring.

Which is what Mom and I are about to do.

We’ve spread the blankets and set out our sandwiches, rolls, fruit, and drinks. Mom’s made a fudge cake as she always does. I’ve brought a bottle of bubbly. It isn’t just my birthday we’re celebrating. It’s also Mom’s recovery. Strictly speaking, she’s only in remission, and she’ll need to wait five years to be considered cured. But that’s beside the point. What matters is that she’s been in the clear for a month, that the treatment has worked incredibly well, and that today she’s as healthy as she can be.

I pop the cork and fill our plastic flutes. “To your health, Mom!”

She touches her cup to mine. “Happy birthday, sweetheart!”

“I’m taking you to a seaside resort in July,” I announce.

“You’ve become terribly bossy lately.” She picks up a sandwich and bites into it. “I’m not going anywhere. Moscow is the place to be in summer. Besides, I’ve made all kinds of cultural plans with my hot flash divorcée gang.”

“But, Mom—”

“You go. God knows you need a break.”

“I do?”

“Annushka, you’ve been wasting away since Christmas, and it worries me.”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

“I know. But I also know that you’ve been getting paler and thinner even as I’ve been on the mend.”

“It’s the work stress,” I say, studying my sandwich.

“You’re a terrible liar.” She takes my hand. “Last time you looked like this was when Stan jilted you.”

I keep silent.

“Will you tell me who he is—the man you’re pining for?” she asks.

I shrug. “What does it matter? They’re all the same. They’re animals, as you’ve always said. They hurt women as soon as they get the chance.”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she says. “It’s my fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighs and tilts her head back for a while, staring at the clouds. When she returns her gaze to mine, her eyes glisten.

“Mom what’s wrong?”

“Listen to me carefully.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “It’s true, I’ve been hurt, and you’ve been hurt even worse. Men can be cruel. But there are good men out there, too.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“Um… Jesus Christ?”

“Mom.”

“OK, OK, he’s part God, so it doesn’t count. But what about Gandhi? And Dalai Lama? And that guy we saw on the news last night—the one who jumped into the Neva and saved three kids from drowning?”

“What’s your point?”

She peers at me. “My point is that I have no regrets. I’ve had more disappointments than I deserve, but if I could turn back the time, I wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Are you serious?”

She nods. “I’ve known love. I’ve had my moments. And you know what? When death stares into your eyes, it’s those moments that you remember and you tell yourself, I’ve lived.”

I can’t believe she’s saying this. I can’t believe how much her illness has changed her.

“What about me?” I struggle to keep my lower lip from pouting.

Get a grip, woman.

She grins and strokes my hand.

Nice try, Mom, but you aren’t getting off the hook so easily. I need an answer. “I thought I was the love of your life, the apple of your eye, and the joy of your existence. Didn’t you always tell me it’s you and me against the world?”

“You are the best thing that’s happened to me, sweetheart,” she says. “But you wouldn’t have happened had I not fallen in love with your dad.”

“Oh, so you now feel grateful to the bastard who left us when I was little without as much as an apology?”

“He’s a jerk, all right, but I’m grateful I crossed paths with him.”

“You’re not making any sense, Mom.”

“Anna, here’s what I’ve learned over the past few months. When you approach your last station—or what you believe to be your last station—you realize the only thing that gives meaning to your life is the love you’ve known. All kinds of it. Regardless of how they ended.”

“How can you say that, with all the suffering men have caused you?”

“In the end, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “What matters is that I’ve cared deeply enough to make myself vulnerable.”

I smirk. “Would you recommend I start wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘I’m fair game’?”

She smiles. “Of course not. I’m just… I just don’t want you to miss out on beautiful things, sweetie. Things that make life worth living.”

“Even if it all ends in tears?”

She lets out a long sigh. “Even so.”

We stay in the park for three more hours. We finish our food and drink, but we can’t stop talking. I tell Mom about Anton—the heavily edited version of it, at any rate. I confess how much I miss him, and that I’ve probably ruined what could’ve been one the most beautiful things in my life. When she asks why, I just tell her our affair had no future. She assumes he’s married. That’s OK. It’s better than telling her the truth.

Anything is better than telling Mom I’m in love with a man who paid to have sex with me.

Isn’t it funny how our hearts work? When I returned to Moscow from Paris, I expected to forget him within a couple of weeks. It’s been over two months now, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. If anything, he’s become more real to me. I just need to close my eyes to smell his skin, hear his voice, and taste his mouth.

The truth is, there’s no point in protecting myself from the future pain of when Anton’s done with me, because I’m already hurting. My whole body’s sore from the intensity with which I miss him.

OK, there’s also the distinct possibility that he’s already moved on, hooked up with a woman from his circles, and forgotten about me. Or he may simply refuse to talk to me, given how we parted at the end of January.

Well, that would actually be a good thing. Wouldn’t I prefer outright rejection to a month with Anton ending in a shattered heart?

I ponder the matter for a few moments and, to my horror and incomprehension, conclude that I’d take the month and the heartbreak.