How Many Russians Have You Killed?

I’ve missed half his life. I’m a father he barely knows. Then he asked me the one question I never thought I’d hear

I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE HIS FATHER.

Even after all this time, all this distance, all this war, I was still trying.

Trying to sound warm. Trying to ask about his school, his favorite show, his friends. Trying to pretend we hadn’t missed the years of each other’s lives.

Trying to forget that most days, I’m more ghost than dad.

Even though I love him more than anything in this world, war has turned me into a shadow on a screen.

A man on the other side of the border. A father he barely knows.

And then he asked me:

“How many Russians have you killed?”

Just like that.

Like he was asking what I do for work. Like this is what a father is now.

I wanted to say something wise. But I stalled, like I always do when I’m scared I’ll say the wrong thing.

I didn’t even know what part of me shattered first: my heart, my memory, or my voice. He very probably didn’t ask it with fear. Not even curiosity. He asked like kids ask how many goals you scored back when you played in the yard with your friends.

It can be even that he was proud. Like he thought I was some kind of superhero.

And I just stood there, staring at him, with my heart crumbling into pieces I couldn’t even pick up.

A little man of almost eight. Someone I’ve spent almost half of his life away from. A time I’ll never get back anymore.

Even though he’s the recipient of the most intense love I’ve ever felt for anything in this world, that love doesn’t change the fact: war stole our time. I wasn’t there. I’m still not there.

War stole my family from me.

He feels like I’m a little more than a stranger. And I understand him.

For many months, he refused to talk to me. Only after a long and careful effort did he accept to speak with me again.

Our conversations are still cold, still distant, but war taught me patience. Taught me not to jump the steps. I learned that the hard way, also with my wife. After all, how do you keep a relationship after more than 1,000 days apart?

You don’t. You adapt.

Lives reshape themselves. And one day, the people you love the most start feeling slightly out of place in your life.

When we think of what Russia has done to Ukraine, we remember the buildings, the bombs, the blood. We remember the Bucha massacre, which is about three years ago on this date.

But no one ever sees the image of broken families.

No one sees the quiet destruction of connection. Between husbands and wives, parents and children.

I will always hate you, Russia, for that.

But I won’t let this define my family.

Still, when my son, in one of those cold calls, looked me in the eye and asked how many PEOPLE I had killed, I didn’t know what to say. I lost sleep for several nights, as if we didn’t already have enough reasons to lie awake here in Ukraine.

I tried to make my voice sound calm. I don’t think it worked, but I needed to say something.

So I took a breath, and told him that it was a question only suitable for his 18th birthday. That war isn’t something we talk about with kids. That someday we’d have that conversation, but not now.

For now, I said, he should just know I was performing my duty in a way he and his Ukraine would be proud of. Told him not to worry about the details.

What would you have said in my place?

Could you look your child in the eye and carry the weight of that silence? Would you try to protect him, or tell the truth, whatever it might cost?

Maybe it didn’t help our already fragile bond. Maybe it pushed us further apart. But what could I have said?

What could I possibly say to my son, my little boy, who became, in some ways, a stranger to me?

Three years of war. Of living like I had three other lives. Of forgetting what normal even looks like.

The things I saw. The things I felt.

Sometimes I look at my son and he feels like a reminder of a distant past. Of a version of myself I don’t even recognize anymore.

I love him more than anything. That hasn’t changed. Never will.

But I keep wondering… Am I still fighting for a family that only exists in memory? Am I clinging to a fatherhood that belonged to a man I used to be and I’m not anymore?

This is a kind of destruction you won’t find in any photo, any headline, any infographic.

(pause to breath)

If you’ve read this far, you already know that. The destruction exists.

It’s here.

It lives inside me. Follows me everywhere. Speaks in my son’s voice when I least expect it. And it keeps me awake long after the sirens stop.

I will keep fighting.

For him. For us.

Even when I’m not sure who they are anymore.
Even when I’m not sure who I am anymore.

🇺🇦

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