On 23 February I was debating whether to order a new shoe rack for our apartment in Kyiv. The next day, at four in the morning, I woke my one-year-old son with shaking hands. As he cried, I threw clothes and essentials into a bag, thinking that I might never see my home again. Neither the shoe rack nor any other lovingly acquired and arranged possessions would matter any more.
My son said goodbye to his adored black moose; goodbye to the toy car he had just gotten old enough to ride; goodbye to the board books, the photographs, the crib, the teddy bear.
Now I am back in Kyiv. My husband and I returned home after leaving my son with his grandparents in Western Ukraine. We’d hoped that Ivano-Frankivsk, my hometown, would be a safe haven, but the Russians have recently been firing cruise missiles at the city’s airport. By now, all Ukrainians understand that there are no safe places left for us any more.
