– 3 –
I need fresh air, but I can only take tiny, useless gulps. My head is splitting.
Everything around instantly becomes unbearably bright and oppressive.
All I can see in my mind is a photograph of my husband holding this pink bundle in his hands.
This isn’t just a betrayal. It’s a rupture of reality.
Could it be that these weeks of fear, anxiety, and struggle for a fragile future that could be cut short at any moment were in vain? Could it be that everything Gordey said, argued about, and feared… was a lie, covering up another, secret life?
I close my eyes, trying to stop this whirlwind, but instead of silence, a single, painful image appears in my mind: my husband’s face, distorted with anger and fear, that evening, several weeks ago. The evening when I told him.
The dining room light was warm and amber. Dinner was already on the table. Gordey sat across from me, in his snow-white shirt, perfect as always: precise, collected, with a piercing gaze. He was saying something, but I barely heard it because I was holding an invisible grenade with the pin pulled.
“Gordey,” she interrupted him. “I have… news.”
He raised an eyebrow, giving me an appraising look. He always seemed ready for any information.
– AND?
I took a deep breath. I’d rehearsed this phrase dozens of times, but saying it out loud was incredibly difficult.
– I’m pregnant.
Silence. In a split second, the warm, amber light seemed to fade. Gordey stopped chewing. He froze. His gaze didn’t change: it was still piercing, but now there was something cold in it, something akin to horror.
“What did you say?” is not a question. It’s an order to repeat, to cancel, to refute.
– I… I’m pregnant, Gordey.
The husband put down his cutlery. The metal hit the porcelain louder than a gunshot. He slowly, very slowly, ran his hand through his hair, his military bearing beginning to crumble.
“You took the pills,” he said evenly, without a trace of emotion. And his calm scared me. “And you know you shouldn’t…”
“I quit taking the pills,” panic was slowly creeping up on me. “And I saw a doctor. Yes, there are risks, but they…”
“Risks?” Gordey jumped up, his chair falling to the floor. “Varya, listen to me carefully!” He came up to me, looming over me. I cringed under his heavy, angry gaze. “You have heart problems. These aren’t just risks. These are damn guarantees that you might not exist! The cardiologist told us this straight out two years ago, when you mentioned children again! Have you forgotten?!”
My husband’s words were laced not with anger, but with pure, animal fear, which he, a rock of a man, refused to acknowledge. He didn’t want me to see it.
“I haven’t forgotten anything! But medicine is advancing! I was told that with constant monitoring, if you follow…”
“No!” Gordey barked, taking a step back. It was as if he’d erected an invisible wall around himself. “I’m against it. Absolutely. I can’t allow you… me… I love you! You’re all I have. I don’t need this ‘happiness’ at the cost of your health!”
I was starting to feel dizzy. This heaviness in my chest… it wasn’t just emotion. It was tension. But I couldn’t back down.
“You just don’t want children, Gordey! Tell me straight!”
He bared his teeth. It wasn’t a smile, but a grimace of disgust at his own weaknesses. He didn’t want children. Never. He was content with his work, his order, his scheduled life.
“Yes. So what? Is that a crime? I don’t want to lose you! You don’t understand, this isn’t about the child! This is about you! I won’t survive if…” He didn’t finish. He simply turned to the window, cutting himself off.
“But I want children!” I stood up abruptly. My legs were barely holding me up, but I stubbornly took a step towards him. “And I’m carrying him! Because otherwise, why live at all? Just drink, eat? And die alone? Just trust me. I feel like everything will be fine! And… and if something goes wrong,” I faltered, tears already choking me, “then you’ll have… the memory of us! A piece of me!”
Gordey turned around. His eyes flashed, and for the first time, real anger appeared in them.
“I don’t need that kind of memory! Do you hear me?! I need you! Alive! And not this… this, as you called it, ‘gift’ that could kill you! This is pure selfishness on your part! You thought only of yourself, but didn’t ask about my wishes. I won’t let you take that risk.”
“Abortion?” she said coldly, and the word hung in the air, venomous and sharp. “Are you asking me for an abortion?”
“I demand that you think about yourself!” Gordey came up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I love you, Varya! And this child,” he paused, “is unborn to me! Non-existent! Nobody.”
We argued until late at night. He pressed, explained the risks, cited the doctors, our life together. I cried, withdrew, and repeated that I wouldn’t refuse, that it was my choice, my body.
That night, he left the house for the first time and then went to sleep in the guest room. It wasn’t just a fight. It was a crack in our foundation, letting in a cold wind.
Gordey remained against it. Firmly, unequivocally against it.
He stopped asking about my health, tried not to touch my stomach, but at the same time, with maniacal persistence, he made sure that I took all my medications on time and controlled my daily routine.
It was his twisted form of care, his way of controlling risk. He thought I’d give in. I thought he’d understand.
I open my eyes and return to reality. My hands are shaking. My head is buzzing.
Gordey’s rejection of our child, his fear for my life, his harsh “I don’t need such a memory” – all of this collapses like a house of cards at the sight of this one, single photograph.
