I turn the key in the lock, walk out and slam the door behind me, cutting off the past.– Lesya, for fuck’s sake! – Major Gromov’s voice rings out. – What, did you knock out Mikha?
– It’s not my fault! It’s self-defense!
– He came to help, Lesya. He’s my friend.
– Well, excuse me, it’s not written on his forehead, – I mutter, getting up from this very Mikhail.
– Holy shit, I knocked Mikha out, – the guys quietly laugh off to the side. – No one could, but a girl did.
– And who is he? – I ask them cautiously.
– A former special forces commander. A colonel. A tough guy.
– And what will happen to me now?
– I think now you’ll be forced to marry him, – answers Gromov.
– Not funny.
– And who’s joking? Mikha will definitely not forgive you for such a disgrace.
– 5 –
Gordey
Five damn days in this hole called a “business trip.” Formally, yes, meetings, reports, signatures. In reality, it was running around after Nika, who decided to give birth at the most inopportune moment.
I picked her up from the maternity hospital and took her to a rented apartment. I stocked the refrigerator to the brim with meat, milk, and fruit. I gave her instructions: “Don’t call unless it’s urgent. Handle it yourself.” And then I left. I thought it would last at least a week.
And there’s silence at home. Varya isn’t answering. Not calls, not texts. My last: “Varya, where are you? Call me.” Sent yesterday at 11:47 PM.
Unread. Offended. Again. Because of that ultrasound. Stubborn. Like a little girl, she doesn’t understand that this is serious. That her life is on the line. Heart problems are no joke! Two years ago, the cardiologist clearly said: “The risk is fatal.” And she said, “I want it.”
I want, I want, I want. As if this is a toy and not her life.
I enter the house. The keys jingle in the silence. Maybe he’s sleeping. Or sulking.
I turn on the light. Everything is in place. Orderly. Her outerwear and shoes are missing. Hm.
I go into the bedroom. The bed is untouched. There’s a piece of paper on my pillow. White. Folded in half.
I take it and read it.
Your division!
I read it again. Every word is like a punch to the solar plexus. Abortion? She had an abortion? Without me? Without discussion?
She went herself and… No. It’s right. For her health – right. I wanted it. I told her. I demanded it. But… why did she leave? Were you offended? Because of this? I did it for her! For us!
Bastard? Me? For what? For not wanting her to die? I always told her this straight out. She closed herself off. She sat in her romantic bunker and dreamed of a child, as if it were a picture from a magazine. She quit her pills, ignored the cardiologist, and all she could think about was “I want.” This is pure stupidity.
Why am I selfish? Because I’m not ready to stand over her grave? My brain doesn’t work on “ahs,” but on risks and consequences. Yes, I’m cold. Because I bear responsibility. For her, too. I always have.
“He didn’t want my children.” Where does this hatred come from? Yes, we fought. Yes, I was harsh. But it was for her! For her own good! Doesn’t she understand at all?
She left because I made her think about saving herself? Absurd. Female hysteria.
My temples are pounding. So that’s it. And she even called me a dog…
She had an abortion, blamed me for everything, and ran away. Took the money. Great. War has been declared. I need to find her, bring her back, and get my position across. Her health will now be under my total control. No more sentimentality.
The phone vibrates. In my pocket. I take it out. “Nika.” Naturally.
“I’ve run out of money, will you transfer it?”
I grit my teeth. I just left. The fridge is full. I bought diapers. Formula. Everything. And she – money. My fingers are already typing: “How much?” – I erase. You can’t encourage chaos.
Another message arrives without a pause: “Have you watched The Nanny?”
She had enough brains to get pregnant, but not to handle a child. I’d send her away. To hell.
I am writing:
“I have no time.”
Damn it, I need to look for a wife.
I put my phone on the nightstand. And the next second—a push. “Government Services: divorce application accepted.”
My throat is tight. I hastily unbutton the top button of my shirt. You’re trying to divorce me?! Just like that? A note on the pillow and a one-click application? No conversation? No attempt to hear? Okay. Breathe.
I open the closet, and there are only empty shelves staring at me like a jury. On the dresser is a ring. Hers. She took it off. She must have been lathering it, her fingers were swollen, I know. She took it off and threw it away. A theatrical gesture. Powerful. It’s always like that with her: all or nothing.
Do I love you for this? Yes. Will I tell you? No. Because love is not an argument in a conversation about risks.
“Doggie.” Now that word really stung.
There’s a deafening roar in my head. Not anger. Not fury. Something more. A dull, animal panic, the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. Even under fire.
She’s alone. Sick. Possibly still pregnant. Hates me. And I don’t know where she is.“I’m in labor,” I text my husband, my fingers shaking with fear. “The contractions are strong.”
“I’m flying. Don’t be afraid, I’ll be there,” Kirill replies, and my heart feels lighter.
But a few seconds later, I receive a completely different message from him:
“My wife is in labor. I hope you understand what this means? I have to be with her and won’t be able to come for the next few days.”
A pause.
My heart stops, as if it has forgotten how to beat.
Meanwhile, my husband continues to shower his mistress with confessions:
“Although I want to. Depending on the situation, I’ll try to find an hour today. I think that’s enough to relieve the tension between you…”
