you're on your own, kid

Prologue

I always wondered what it would feel like to love someone, unconditionally. To have an ever-present, never-dying love for one person, that trumped everything else. A partnership like no other. That, even through the lowest of lows and highest of highs, there would be just one person who would walk along the earth with you, through it all. And that would be enough.

They would be enough.

He would be enough.

Or so I thought.

—

"Luda," Mama said to me. "You have to go." We were at the airport, trying to say our goodbyes.

"But I don't want to," I screamed. I clung to her body, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"This will be good for you, Luda. Papa will be there with you, and Anna." I looked at my mama, not wanting to leave her behind. Not wanting to leave Ukraine. Not wanting to move across the continent at only five years old.

"But Mama!" I screamed, throwing my arms around her, but she pushed me off. Mama never was one for emotional discussions. She was cold, at times, and practical. Never overly loving, or affectionate. But I loved her despite that.

"Go!" she ordered, and I soon straightened up. My body no longer hung limp on hers, and something clicked in my head: I was leaving home. I was moving.

While Papa took my sister, Ivanna, and me across the continent, my mama stayed in Ukraine. She stayed in our small town on the eastern border, to look after my family. She couldn't leave, but he could, and he brought us. They were no longer married. He could leave, get a new job, and start a new life, and she knew it would be best if we came too.

So, Papa brought Anna and me with him. A father with his two little girls.

We were five and three, leaving our mama, but better opportunities arose in the Netherlands. They all knew that. At the time, I didn't. At the time I had no idea why it was all happening, but it was always for the best.

—

"Lu- Ludmi- Ludmila Bu- sorry, I am not going to even try to pronounce that," the teacher said to me, during my first lesson at my new school. I couldn't speak any Dutch, but I knew he wasn't able to pronounce my name by his laughing glare towards me.

"Ludmila," I corrected him. "Bukouski. Ludmila Bukouski."

"Hard one," he laughed.

"No. No hard. Easy." The kids in the class all looked at me, a combination of stares and laughs. My broken Dutch an amusing sight for most of the five-year-olds. The teacher only smiled at me, before moving on, calling out the normal Dutch names that were in his comfort zone: Joannes, Mark, Julia, Sophie.

The class bell rang, and as I walked outside, I knew I had to test my limits. I was never a shy person; not by any means. I could make friends wherever I went, never doubting myself, even as a six-year-old. I went to the grass, wanting to join in with the boys who were playing some version of futball.

"I play?" I asked them.

"Ew, no. Girls don't play."

"I am good!" I exclaimed.

"No." One of the boys grabbed me by the shoulder, pushing me off the grass. Anger boiled inside of me, and luckily for me, a hand pulled me back. A girl, from an older class, who I had recognized earlier, smiled at me.

"Don't bother," she exclaimed. "We can play together." She had a ball in her hand, and I smiled, nodding my head, before walking behind a secret path with her.

"What's your name?" the girl asked me. I was still trying to learn the language but I knew some words, and my name was one of them.

"Ludmila," I replied. The girl stared at me, not with any malice but more as if she was trying to think of something. As if her brain was working at a million miles an hour.