– 7 –
The hospital walls become my second reality. Not just white plaster, but a kind of cocoon, a refuge, the only place where I can allow myself to be weak.
Long weeks, turning into months, spent under the care of the best cardiologist-obstetrician, whom Sergei’s father found.
This doctor, with his high qualifications and imperturbable gaze, became my salvation, my only chance at life.
I lie there and struggle. I struggle for every breath, for every millimeter of peace. I try to hold on to this fragile life that is both my salvation and my threat.
Fear, sticky and cold, remains my constant companion, but now it is accompanied by a stubborn, stone-like determination born of betrayal.
I will endure it. In spite of everything.
Surgery was inevitable. My heart, exhausted from constant stress and strain, wouldn’t have survived a natural birth.
It wasn’t Gordey, but my body that delivered the final verdict. I sign the papers, feeling as if I were signing a will.
On the day of a cesarean section, the silence of the operating room is oppressive, and the bright, merciless light seems unbearable.
Son…
He comes into the world with a quiet, weak, barely audible cry that I can hear through the roaring in my ears. It’s not a triumphant roar, it’s a groan.
My baby is quickly taken away for resuscitation. I only have time to see a tiny, bluish lump.
He’s very weak. But I already love him beyond measure. And for some reason, I don’t know why, I give him a name that comes from the depths of my heart – Leo. Little Leo, who is destined to fight.
Recovery is difficult. Physically, it’s hell. The doctors don’t leave my side, constantly monitoring my blood pressure and heart rate.
I’m not exactly in good health, to put it mildly. I feel like a worn-out, hollow shell. But when I see Lyova’s tiny hand lying in the incubator, I feel a surge of strength.
A month later, a month of hell and hope, when Lyova gains weight and his condition stabilizes, we are discharged.
With the money I took from the safe, I rent a small, clean apartment in a quiet neighborhood. A cozy nest that becomes our home.
Vika and Sergey are helping me with the move. They’re very close to me and help in every way possible. Sergey silently repairs the shelves, Vika tirelessly prepares broths.
I know perfectly well that it’s hard for them, that I’m a burden, a burden on their lives, but they try not to show it. It’s my fault, my debt, which I will now owe them forever.
And then my mother comes to the rescue. Unexpectedly.
“Varyusha, why didn’t you say anything? Why so far away?” She arrives out of the blue and hugs me, holding me close. “You’re so thin! And Lyova is so small! Why did you do this to me? I thought you’d disappeared or something terrible!”
I can’t explain it to her. I can’t destroy her perfect world, I can’t tell her that Gordey, her beloved, upstanding son-in-law, turned out to be a dog with a secret family.
I’m just saying that we had a really bad fight, his work became more important than mine, and I left. For good.
Mom starts visiting more often. She’s my lifeline, my anchor. She cooks, does the laundry, and babysits Lyova while I recover from the C-section and try to start working remotely to make ends meet and keep my principal.
She is the only warmth and stability in my broken world.
Mom, of course, can’t resist and tells me. A couple of months later, over a cup of tea.
“You know, Gordey kept coming to see me during the first few months. Like a madman. He was beating down everyone’s neck. He’d come over, call me, and ask me to tell him where you were. But I told him firmly, ‘She’s gone, Gordey. I don’t know where she’s gone. You hurt her, now you’ll have to deal with it.’ He was so sullen, so scary. His eyes were empty. He tried to convince me it was all a mistake, that he didn’t mean to hurt you. And then… it was like a whisper. Abruptly. He stopped calling. He didn’t look for you anymore.
My heart sank. Not from pain, not from longing. From a cold realization. He doesn’t love me. He didn’t fight for me. He just resigned himself. Calmed down.
He solved the problem the way he always did: legally, quickly, with a replacement. He has a daughter, and perhaps a son already. He doesn’t need my “risk.”
Gordey got what he wanted—a living wife (the other one, the mother of his child) and order. And this knowledge, like an icy blade, forever cuts Gordey off from my heart.
Three years fly by, leaving behind not a smooth trail, but a wounded, uneven road. These are not easy years. Every day is a feat.
Lyova is growing up. He’s a sweet, bright boy with huge, thoughtful eyes, but he gets sick very often.
His weakness at birth and the long weeks in the incubator took their toll. Every acute respiratory viral infection is a worry that squeezes my chest, sleepless nights spent over his crib.
I literally live by it. Barely maintaining my own failing health, I take handfuls of pills and relieve stress with tea and honey.
Now I’m officially divorced. Everything happened quickly, in absentia, after Gordey received my divorce petition.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t demand an explanation, he didn’t come back. No legal action, no showdown. Silence.
He simply accepted my decision as a fact. And I didn’t tell him about paternity. Lyova is only mine.
I continue to work remotely, but the money is barely enough. We are living in austerity mode.
My mother helps as best she can with her modest pension, although I try to avoid it.
And now this world, which I built with such difficulty, in constant tension, is collapsing.
A call from my hometown. My neighbor’s voice, trembling and full of panic:
– Varya… Mom… Had a stroke. They took her to the local hospital. A major one. Her condition is serious.
Everything freezes. I can’t breathe. I hang up, run to Lyova, and grab him in my arms. I need to go.
To where I fled, where I swore I would never return. To where he, the ghost of my past, continues his perfect life.
I pack for us in one day. Bags, medicine, Lev’s toys. I say goodbye to Vika and Sergey. I hug them.
They don’t ask questions, they just look at you with concern and promise that “if anything happens” they will immediately rush to help.
We’re returning. My son and I are settling into my mother’s now empty apartment.
The hospital is becoming my second home. Mom is in terrible shape. She lies there, barely speaking, looking at me with her own, so dear, eyes and crying from helplessness.
I stroke her hand, I have to be strong. I can’t let myself get discouraged.
I need a job. Stability. To pay for rehabilitation and medication.
And Lyova needs communication and development, so as not to sit within four walls.
And then I remember my teaching degree. Now it’s my only asset.
I go to the kindergarten next door to my mother’s apartment. There are always lines at the kindergarten in our city. But I go, driven by desperation and necessity.
The manager, a tired, elderly woman, looks at me attentively.
“We need a teacher. We need one urgently. Are you ready to start tomorrow? Full-time?”
I nod, choking with relief. This isn’t just a job, it’s salvation.
“Then bring your son tomorrow. Get registered. You’ll get a spot in the nursery group, of course, ahead of the queue, as our employee.”
And so, the first morning of work. Cold, damp air hits your face, promising imminent snow.
The sun, unexpectedly bright for this chilly winter, filters through the windows. I’m wearing a simple but neat dress, my hair pulled back into a tight, prim bun, and light makeup to hide the traces of sleepless nights.
I take Lyova to the next nursery group. He cries, clings to me, his little hands clutching at my dress. He’s afraid. But he has no choice.
I arrive at my group. The children are already starting to slowly gather.
I stand at the door, smiling, accepting each child. This smile comes with titanic effort. My cheeks ache from the unaccustomed strain.
Five, six, seven children. Mothers and fathers hurriedly say goodbye, giving final instructions.
I’m waiting for the next parent. I look at the door.
And then, like a bolt from the blue, my heart gives a sharp, painful jerk. It freezes, as if someone pulled a plug. Everything goes dark before my eyes. Gordey…
He stands in the doorway. The same as three years ago. Not a single wrinkle. Still powerful, tough, with perfect posture. Black coat, high collar. It’s as if time hasn’t passed on him.
He doesn’t notice me right away. He leans toward the little girl, holding her hand. The girl is about three years old, maybe a little older. She’s wearing a bright pink jumpsuit, and her chestnut hair is braided into tight pigtails.
“Come on, take off your hat yourself. I’ll pick you up this evening.” His voice is quiet, soft, completely different from the way he spoke to me when we argued. There’s an undisguised, warm tenderness in it.
The girl raises her head, looks at Gordey with her huge brown eyes and hugs his knee.
And then Gordey looks up. And our eyes meet.
My heart, already exhausted, seems to stop completely. I feel physically numb. I lose the power of speech. I can’t move. I can’t even blink.
He looks at me. At first, with complete bewilderment. Then his eyes narrow, and a hard, instant recognition lights up in them, like an electric shock.
“Varya?” It’s not a question. It’s an exhalation, full of shock, disbelief, and something akin to anger.
