As soon as we entered Igor’s apartment, we were greeted by Millie. She was three days postpartum, bright-eyed as ever and offering us a platter of deviled eggs. Sometimes I liked to imagine the perpetually poised woman losing her shit. I wanted to believe there were days when she threw vases against the wall of the living room and ranted like a banshee. Nobody could keep it together all the time, even if they were a professional at pretending.

“My mother made them. They’re delicious,” Millie said as she waited for us to take a piece. “I also have ham wheels and potato puffs.”

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Maks asked as he grabbed an egg.

“Rest is for the lazy,” she grinned. “How about a drink?”

“We’re doing celebratory shots of Smirnoff,” Igor said as he walked into the foyer of their expansive apartment, son in hand.

“I’ll go ahead and get them then,” Millie said. “Take a seat in the living room. I’ll bring them in.”

We did as we were told and while Maks gazed at the baby, I glanced around the room, still finding it bananas that my brother lived in such a snazzy place. The windows were dressed with lace sheers to display the lake beyond their panes, and every other detail in the decor seemed to be chosen with a similar purpose; from the baby blue hue of the walls to the wave-like chrome sconces that adorned them, the apartment was serene.

“Here you go,” Millie said, handing out shot glasses and receiving the baby from Igor.

“To Paul,” Igor proposed.

“And his mother,” Maks added, ever the charmer.

“Na Zdorovie.”

We clinked glasses and threw back the shots. I was tempted to ask for another but sank into the plush sofa instead.

“You haven’t looked at him yet,” Igor admonished as I watched Maks fuss over Paul.

“I did,” I lied. “You were too busy staring at him to see.”

“Bushwa,” Igor tsked. “He doesn’t have teeth. He’s not going to bite.”

I had never held a baby, and I didn’t intend to, but it seemed my sister-in-law had other ideas.

“You should hold him, Viktor,” Millie suggested, walking over to me. “You are his godfather after all.”  The new mother was regarding me more softly than she had in the past, which was unnerving in an indescribable way.

“Godfather?” I scoffed, nudging my knuckle against my nostril uncomfortably. “What are we Italian now?”

“Catholic,” Igor corrected. “At least Paul will be, once he’s baptized.”

“A Catholic? His last name disagrees,” I joked, much to Millie and Igor’s chagrin.

“Because it’s made us such good Orthodox Christians? Jews?” My brother laughed wryly. “People are who they’re raised to be. You should know that better than anyone.”