In July 1974, I was born in Moscow to ordinary laborers who had left their villages for the capital.

During the Brezhnev era, there was a significant outflow from the countryside, which Western sociologists refer to as rural-to-urban migration. Existing cities were growing, new major factories and monotowns were being developed, and the party was tasked with building more to meet urbanization demand. There was a Soviet dream similar to the American one. The only difference was that the Soviet dream was based on collectivism rather than individualism. By the time I was born, the construction of progressive "Khrushchevkas" - five-story buildings without elevators, with tiny rooms and kitchens - was complete. In the USA, they say one or two-bedroom apartments, but in the Soviet Union, one-room apartments meant a studio, two-room meant one bedroom separated by another room, etc. Because Khrushchevkas and Brezhnevkas were designed to last just forty to fifty years, it was assumed that the proletariat would be relocated to spacious apartments shortly, just as they had quickly moved out of communal apartments and kolkhoz dugouts. For many people, having running water and electricity on demand was a miracle, let alone having private bathrooms in their homes. 

And just like that, Moscow was expanding like a hungry, rustless monster: new metropolitan districts devoured villages orbiting the city with their rural inhabitants, including my father. My parents met at a construction site, where my mother was a painter, and my dad was a plasterer. They lived in a dormitory, a common practice for young workers in the USSR. Such poor and uneducated newcomers to the Soviet Union’s megapolises were called “limita” – limited in moral, educational, and financial statuses. Limita was grouped into rooms of three to six people, usually unrelated. In order to be placed in a room with good neighbors, you had to “negotiate” with the dormitory commandant by bribing them with goods from the village, such as lard, potatoes, and moonshine.

The workers gathered for evening dances on Fridays. Villagers rarely fell in love and started families with city dwellers, as naively portrayed in Soviet films. Everyone felt more at ease with "their own" - similar interests, dialects, morals, backgrounds, and village relatives. 

My father, Anton, once attended one of these dances. There, he fell for a girl in a white fitted knee-length dress with honey-colored loose hair that beckoned him whenever she moved. Olga was with her friends. The entire girl group wore identical Yugoslav sandals procured from the same department store. It was obvious that they were not Muscovites because they laughed heartily. When Father approached her for a dance, he had no idea that someone already courted the girl he fancied. And she? With a coquette grin, Olga wrapped her hands around Anton's shoulders and twirled in dance.

Her date emerged out of a prolonged smoko and gave Anton a black eye while my parents were still dancing. My father was stalwart and could have easily beaten his rival, but a sketchy brigade arrived and practically scooped him up to the men's dormitory. They didn't let the delicate and restless Olga in because it was already late - the Soviet dormitory closed at 11 p.m. She slipped to Dad in the morning after requesting time off from the hungover foreman. Anton was covered in bruises and abrasions, so she gently and silently wiped his wounds. He kissed her, which marked their first intimate experience. 

They were surrounded by Soviet life, including squeaky iron mesh beds, horrible linen, chipped bulky teapots, and furniture that may have spoken if you listened closely.

But mom was always striving for beauty, going so far as to order her outfits from a tailor. Even that white dress Dad was so crazy about – was sewn by a woman in the kitchen.

Following that first intimate encounter, my mother got pregnant. She was often sick on the construction site, and one of the girls reported it to the foreman. He had been eyeing my mother for quite a while. Moreover, he came from the same village as her, so he could marry her, and everyone would accept it as normal. Kuzmich knew only one of Olga's "grooms." He had never heard of my father. When he found out she was pregnant, he summoned her to his trailer and began threatening her. Kuzmich insisted that as her superior, he would alert the parents of her immoral frolicking, unworthy of Soviet youth. My mother was always too embarrassed by the incident to confront Kuzmich, even though he nearly raped her.

My parents married when the pregnancy became hard to conceal. There's a photo of them leaving the registry office together, where my mother is still wearing the same white dress that now tightly hugs her belly. The Trade Union provided them with a one-room apartment. They organized their married life to the best of their ability. The comrade lads presented them with a pot, a basin, and spoons. The girls from my mother's dorm brought swaddling cloths because diapers were unavailable in the USSR. 

My mother gave birth to twins, surprising everyone. A horrific conveyor-like maternity hospital with a lack of workforce and humanity: my mother was cut without anesthetic, and the baby of the unattended woman giving birth next to her perished from a fall. 

Olga struggled to cope with the twins. Her desire for beauty was rapidly quelled by breastfeeding, diaper washing, bathing, and loneliness. My father started coming home late. He drank and then took out his anger on my mother. But one fateful day, he returned home from the factory in great spirits. My father won a card game in the locker room. The bet was fifty rubles, a large sum for ordinary laborers! A week later, my father returned in a merry state once more. Then again and again. By luck's virtue, my parents could afford to buy my brothers a double stroller and a selection of high-quality goods from the market. But one night, Anton came running home and told not to open the door under any circumstances. They banged on the front door until the enraged neighbors emerged.

My father made the decision to quit the following day. My mother begged him on her knees not to do it because they had just left the village, and there were better prospects in Moscow. A few days later, he instructed her to pack. They were relocating to another neighborhood in Moscow, where he secured a job at a construction site. My mother's friends and even the foreman Kuzmich came to say their goodbyes. Kuzmich murmured in her ear that he would support her with two children if Olga stayed. But my mother was pregnant again, and for some reason, she loved her dissolute husband with a weird passion known as "Russian" in Soviet cinema.

Father received decent pay at his new job. This time, they were offered a two-room flat because there were two adults and three children – Lilia, my sweet elder sister, was born shortly after moving in. My maternal grandmother came to visit and provided us with much-needed lard, meat, and potatoes. 

She remained silent most of the time, observing closely as if diagnosing my parents. 

As a farewell, Grandmother said, "Come home, daughter, when you feel sick enough."

Olga nodded. Six months later, she realized two things: her husband was gambling again, and she was pregnant with me.

The troubles only increased, making my veteran mother ill, exhausted, and bewildered. She requested Anton's permission to stay at the village so that her mother could help take care of my elder siblings and welcome me.

Father pressed his fist against her cheek and yelled, "Watch out, Olka!"

"But I am going to my mother! I'll visit my father's grave at last. Go out with whom and where, crazy one? "There I am, pot-bellied again," she said, placing his rough hand on her tummy.

Mother blossomed once again in the village under Grandma's care. Her childhood pals would hang out with her, assisting with my siblings and dreamily enquiring about life in the capital. Well, their principal reason for visiting was to daydream about Mom's city tales. She gifted her best friend Katya the infamous white dress, parting with beauty till kingdom come. During my mother's stay in Moscow, the environment in the village started to shift. To balance out the rural club, they constructed a church. Father Pavel arrived from the Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius. He was unmarried, with red hair and a big, shovel-like beard. Pavel effortlessly became acquainted with everyone in the Soviet village, much to the astonishment of several staunch communists.

Father Pavel once paid a visit to my grandmother, who had been widowed for a year, and spotted my mother. He began to visit their manless household frequently enough for stories to circulate across the community. My mother turned to Katya for desperate advice. Olga wished to be loved and cared for as a wife. She considered splitting up with my father and becoming a presvytera. Her stomach was barely visible. Katya slipped Mom the address of a doula who conducted illegal abortions. But the priest really loved her and did his best to save her soul from a terrible sin. Persuaded and committed to being loved by her family in heaven, my mother kept me.

Summer was about to end. Anton soon sent Olga a telegram saying, "Enough of vacationing, I am waiting for you in Moscow, got a new job." No matter how hard Grandma, friends, and Father Pavel tried to convince Mom to stay, she packed her belongings and headed for Moscow. I was born a week later and had a striking resemblance to that priest. I was the only one among the kids with red hair and blue eyes.

I grew up as a sickly child. Father made a habit of coming home late at night to avoid communicating with us. Once, I developed pneumonia, lying with a high fever and fading away in front of my siblings and distressed mother. 

Returning after another night of drinking with fawning goners like him, Anton glanced at me and blurred, "There is no need for doctors. If he wants to, he can survive on his own. God giveth - God taketh. There will be fewer hungry mouths in the household."

My father's perennial gambling and indignant debauchery troubled my sanctimonious mother: she was adamant that morose Moscow was more tempting to my spineless dad. She began urging him to move to a smaller city. Anton quickly fell back into gambling debt, necessitating the relocation.

Consequently, we fled from Moscow to Kalinin (modern Tver). In Soviet times, handymen were in high demand; my father went to the nearby factory and noticed a banner, capitalizing "WORKERS WANTED." He went back to work right away, while my mother went to the antenatal clinic to register in the new city.

Andrei, one of my older brothers, told me that my mother conceived two more children after I was born. They died as infants due to unspecified sickness. They yelled for days while the neighbors pounded on our apartment doors – such a cannon event for our family. Doctors were not called to the little ones in my dad's credence. The local police officer came to the house to wrap up the protocol, asking Olga how this tragedy came to be. My mother only cried and shrugged in response. The case was closed. My father resumed gambling. Soon after, he brought home a large sum of money. Mother instantly hurried out and purchased us clothes, shoes, and toys, believing he would never take them out of the house, but she was mistaken. Everything was used as a stake, even her engagement ring. He'd forfeited his wedding band a long time ago. 

We barely squeezed into a two-room apartment. Mother urged Father to go to the plant's management and request a larger accommodation. Suddenly, a telegram arrived informing my mother that Grandma had passed. Without hesitation, our parents packed us up and retreated to the village to live at Grandma's house. Everything reminded Mother of her, and she often was teary-eyed. Once so affable and reliable, Father scolded her and swung his fists. He despised working on a communal farm; he didn't get along with his enlightened co-workers. He was particularly enraged by the priest, who he felt came to visit too frequently. One day, a man entered the residence beside Anton. The stranger roamed the rooms for a long time, climbed into the attic, went down into the cellar, and examined the pantry.

A week later, my father showed up with a sales contract and two thousand rubles. In the eighties, this was a substantial amount of money. However, we ended up back on the streets. Boarding the train yet again with all our simple household utensils, bundles, and suitcases as Father Pavel waved at us was ingrained in my memory. After selling my grandmother's home, my father chose to relocate because he had already lost the money. This besmirched man fathered six children, so we needed a large house to host eight people at least. Someone from the hamlet recommended that we relocate to the south with such a large throng: it will be easier to feed ourselves in its warmer climate. He chose Grushyovuy, a farm near Stavropol. We boarded a sauna-like couchette car and left for the unknown, hopefully better future. We were given a house with a fruit and vegetable garden at the state farm. My dad found a job at the stables. He enjoyed dealing with horses more than with people, relaxing at last. My father instructed the older children, including myself, to assist my mother with the chores. We planted potatoes, tended the hens, milked the goat, and hauled water from the well. All the kids enjoyed the farm. The settlement was amicable – we lived as one family. They always fed us, gave my mother clothes their children outgrew, and were compassionate toward her. 

This was the most delightful period of my childhood, lasting approximately three years. My mother hoped my father had stopped playing and we would remain in Grushyovuy. But once, my father did not come home for the night and returned with two black stallions in the morning. Their beauty enchanted me. I fed them carrots and stroked their beautiful blue-black manes. I closed my eyes and envisioned myself racing a horse. My father went missing again the following night. In the morning, he appeared gray with anger. He pushed my mother, who was pregnant with her eighth child, and she fell. My sister dashed for first aid to stop Mom's rapid bleeding. The doctor treated Olga and threatened Anton that he would report him to the authorities. Our father silently took the horses' bridles and exited the yard. He showed up many days later alone. The mother was slowly recovering, needing rest. We maintained the household alone, and our neighbors brought us borscht and pirozhki (hand pies). One day, our parents instructed us to leave the house. They had a long conversation before allowing us to enter, and we discovered we were moving again. The father needed to get off someone's radar quickly, so he chose an obscure spot. This location was a settlement in Karelia. We boarded a train to the north at night, carrying only the minimal requirements. The sisters wept.

Our family settled into a decrepit house on the edge of the village. After the wealthy, food-rich Stavropol, it was a true hell pit. The school and paramedic station were in a neighboring village 9 kilometers away. My mother experienced an arduous premature labor as a result of my father's disastrous push in Grushyovuy. Vanka sustained a birth injury. His parents eventually recognized that he was deaf. The paramedic suggested that my mother refrains from having any more children. But, there was no contraception talk: my father had Olga wherever and whenever he pleased. Often, only a curtain around their bed separated their sex life from us. During the winter, I tried to focus on aurora's dancing to the howling of voracious wolves. Her chiffon gown, embellished with extraterrestrial pearls and diamonds of various colors, was magnificent. I craved I could buy such an outfit for my sisters. And I longed to meet my Aurora someday.

We went to school. I remember always attempting to unify my brothers and sisters. Yes, I realized I couldn't resist my father, but it was just a matter of time. After all, we would grow up eventually. That autumn, my younger brother Egor and I became especially close.

We lived in total poverty in Karelia. After the blessed Stavropol region with its gardens and farms, it seemed that God had forgotten about Karelia, which served as a purgatory. People in the village refused to work and drank themselves to death. The marshes and permafrost of this climate did not support abundant growth. Mushrooms and wild fruit were the only way we could sustain ourselves. The local youngsters showed us which pathways to walk and which mushrooms were edible. We felt like hunters as we worked our way through the swamps, bringing home cloudberries, wild raspberries, and blueberries. Bringing mushrooms meant there would be dinner in the house. Mother and sisters prepared dumplings or cooked them with blue, damp potatoes. Father went to work as a lumberjack. We barely saw him, and life began to improve again. We learned about herbs from locals, harvested them, and handed them to local procurement organizations for money.

Spring came late that year. Easter was long past. The children still missed Stavropol, particularly the early vegetables and fruits. Yegorka adored strawberries so much that he would dream about them at night, only to wake up in tears. 

I tried distracting the kiddo by inviting him to scavenge in the forest. The ice thawed, and rivers overflowed their banks. Yegor was screaming, caught up in a violent spring torrent before I could turn around. Without thinking, I jumped into the freezing water and began swimming, fighting the current to the best of my abilities. I pulled my brother out when he was no longer breathing. On the bank, I turned him face down, and water flowed out of him. Egorka rasply gasped and wailed to my relief.

We limped to the glade. I wrapped him in my sheepskin coat, and he said, "Grisha, let us swear that we will never be apart again. Until death, you and I."

I took this oath without thinking too much about what it would mean later.

My brother and I quietly returned home. We only had one task: slip past Mom so she wouldn't see our wet clothes. We crept up to the window and discovered a Karelian shaman at home. After scattering stones on the table, she spoke: "I see you have a husband and many children. There are seven children in this world, two in the afterlife, one ill child who cannot hear anyone, and one inside of you." Mom gripped her stomach. The woman said something else, but I did not hear it. “Get rid of it; its birth means death for all three of you,” muttered the shaman, leaving the hut.

Six months later, my mother went into her final labor. Neither prayers nor the doula helped her. The baby was stillborn. My mother was bleeding badly. We joined hands and stood around the bed where our father had impregnated her with this last child. My mother said her goodbyes to us, not feeling herself. Her gaze lingered somewhere near the ceiling as if searching for an exit or an entrance. Finally, her face froze into a dreadful scowl... and her twisted mouth dropped. At that point, the door flew off its hinges. My father burst into the house. We hid.

We buried my mother and sister in the same coffin. The entire village attended the funeral. The elder women turned unmarried and nulliparous girls away from the casket. Everyone cried as if God had died.

My father drowned in wetlands a year after my mother's death. The local committee intended to send us to an orphanage. They started searching for our relatives. A few months later, we received a response from our childless great aunt in Vinnytsia, who agreed to adopt us on the condition that the elder ones, who were already 16 years old, serve as her helpers. 

Before leaving, I encountered that same shaman. I failed to locate her after Mom died. She looked at me calmly, squinting, and said, "Too bad your mother didn't hear me. Nonetheless, it is a positive change for you. Her death affected your future. You'll travel far away from here, and your task will be to oversee the entire world and the starry sky. Your brothers and sisters will go their separate ways, but you will always be there for each other."

Following her comments, I began to gaze at the night sky all night long, which attracted me with extraordinary force. I no longer saw the Karelian aurora, but I knew we would meet again one day. Sometimes, I heard light humming, similar to my mother's lullaby. I knew we would reunite up there inevitably to form something new in the distant future. The light from the past captivated me, and I wondered if anyone else could still see my mother's beauty from a large telescope.

After finishing school, I enrolled at the Kharkiv Aviation Institute. In addition to studying, I participated in university competitions for javelin and discus throw. My brothers and sisters dispersed around the former Soviet Union, just as the shaman predicted. My beloved older sister Lilia returned to Moscow and married. After graduation from the institute, I moved to live with her. I aspired to work in Russia's space sector, which was the most developed of any post-Soviet country. I soon received a position with the Department of Rocket and Space Engineering in Korolev, Russia's space capital. My dream was to make it to the International Space Station. As soon as I settled in Korolev, I invited my brother Yegor to move in with me. Of all my siblings, I felt most comfortable with him. We were pulled together by an ethereal tie established in the chilly Norse waters. Yegor was not a techie like me; he trained to become an artist. Nonetheless, he shared my love of the stars. His space-themed artworks fared well.

Neither of us got married for a long time, and it was more convenient for us to be together in our star-adorned man cave. My sister from Moscow visited us frequently, bringing homemade pirozhki and cutlets, scolding us for the mess in the apartment, and the emptied-by-passion fridge. Lilya once brought her husband's niece, Sveta, with her. Yegor fell in love with her, and they eventually got married. I thought I was left alone when I was offered a job at the Baikonur. I packed my belongings in about an hour, drove to my department, informed them I was leaving, and flew off to my new life.

At Baikonur, I joined an international team. As soon as I arrived, I was requested to undergo physical tests, which turned out to be fantastic. In Korolev, I did not neglect to exercise; I jogged and swam several times per week. I enjoyed my new life and job. At the same time, I developed a particular fondness for one female colleague in our department. We began dating quickly but cautiously from my end; I was hyperaware of myself and my past, and she appeared as fragile as a crystal vase to the gargantuan me. One day, I knew I wanted to marry her and experience everything the route offers us, good and bad. All I needed to do was declare my love aloud, but a specific impediment was pressuring me, like a heavy cross I had carried my entire life: I didn't want to have children. Every time I thought about it, I remembered the coffin containing my mother and her last stillborn baby. I needed someone's counsel, so I invited Yegor over. He arrived with gifts, including vodka and our sister Lilya's pies. We sat in the kitchen for a long time before I told him all of my important news at once: I wanted to marry, and they were sending me to the ISS. 

Yegor silently poured us more vodka before saying, "You're a good brother, and even greater asshole. You have two fantastic news to share, and we were drinking vodka all this time without occasion."

After that, I married and began training for the mission to the International Space Station. Tanya and I stopped using contraception, but she never became pregnant, which secretly made me happy. Soon, I signed my life away to the stars and began the final step of simulations: a month of isolated training. I dashed home to tell Tanya the news. She appeared pleased, but I believe I heard mild sobbing at night. The next day, I left the house. Before the flight, the boys and I recalled all of the superstitions and rituals that our older comrades told us about. As Yura Gagarin did, we all peed on the bus's back wheel on the way to the launch. We chuckled, and everyone was in anticipation. Before boarding the bolide, when we were already in full gear, a ground control employee dashed over and showed me a handwritten piece of paper. I read that I'd have a daughter in four and a half months. My lips trembled as I smiled. I'll definitely be back home to meet her. My Aurora, I will give her the world, as I promised.