He doesn’t want a child from me because he’s afraid of losing me . Yeah, right…
But at the same time, he wants a child… from someone else. From that young woman who has no “heart problems.” From the one who doesn’t take pills by the handful.
I feel a spasm in my stomach. Familiar, sharp. From icy terror. I press my palms to my stomach, trying to warm it, to calm it. Hot, burning tears stream down my cheeks.
As a military man, Gordey always distinguished himself by his clear distinctions. Black and white. Work and home. Duty and… love. And now? What kind of category is this? A secret family? Or simply a “consequence” of his constant travels?
A cold, scorching rage coursed through my veins. How could he? How could he, knowing how fragile I was, knowing how vulnerable I was, continue to feign this controlled fear for me while he…
I grab my phone again. I find photos of Gordey and me in the gallery: wedding photos, vacation photos. Happy, frozen moments. His eyes, full of… love.
I zoom in on the photo with the pink bundle. Gordey is frowning. I realize this frown isn’t shame. It’s not guilt. It’s his usual expression when he’s solving a problem. And right now, he was solving the problem of his newborn daughter.
Breathe. I need to breathe.
I try to remember the doctor’s advice about breathing exercises, but my vision is blurry. The pain in my chest is getting worse. I feel like I’ve been thrown from a height onto rocks and shattered into a thousand pieces.
– 4 –
I force myself to get up, crawl to the sink, and wash my face with ice-cold water. Then, using the wall as a support, I make my way to the couch. I need to pull myself together, and it requires an effort comparable to lifting a sack of cement.
My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely dial the number.
He will answer. He must answer. Because I must check how deep this lie goes.
I dial my husband’s number. I have to do it twice because my finger slips the first time. Third ring. Fourth.
Finally, I hear Gordey’s voice. It’s familiar, so close to home, and so calm.
– Yes.
I swallow, trying to give my tone a familiar, everyday intonation.
– Gordey. Where are you?
There’s a micro-pause on the line for a second, a pause I’d never have noticed before. Now it feels like a lifetime.
“Varya, where would I be in the middle of the workday? At work, of course. It’s been a hectic day, no time even to eat. Did something happen?”
At work, of course.
Gordey has the rank of reserve colonel and is formally listed as an advisor to one of the military structures.
He’s provided himself with an alibi… Good job. I wonder where he took his girlfriend and the package? Did he rent an apartment for them? Or maybe he’s already bought one?
I close my eyes. And immediately I see him, frowning, holding a baby in his arms. Stop. Stop, Varya, you’re only winding yourself up even more.
I need to give him another chance to tell everything himself. A chance to save our family.
“No, nothing happened,” I say in response, feigning ease. “It’s just… I have an ultrasound the day after tomorrow. The first one. Remember?”
Gordey should have remembered this. I kept telling him about this ultrasound.
“Ultrasound? Yes, I remember. So what?” he replies, somewhat coldly and indifferently.
“You’ve never been to a reception with me, Gordey. Not once. I want you to be here for such an important moment. They’ll show it to us, let us listen to the heart… The day after tomorrow at three. Can you get time off?”
The answer comes instantly. Harsh, merciless. There’s not a trace of hesitation or regret in Gordey.
“No. I told you: this is a very difficult time. I can’t. I have to leave suddenly, most likely before the end of the week. And why would you need that? The doctor will give his opinion, and then you can tell him. It’s just… a procedure.”
The procedure… For him, it’s routine. For me, it’s a small, fragile miracle, for which I might be paying too high a price. And now he’s lying. He can’t get time off because he just picked up his daughter from the hospital. He’ll be gone for a week… Will he support the new mother?
So my child is no longer needed. Gordey doesn’t care what he’s like or what happens to him; he dreams of him disappearing. And here…
At that moment, I realize my heart is growing colder with every passing second from a fierce hatred. For Gordey, for his girl, for their child. A burning contempt flows through my veins.
I bite my lip to keep from screaming, to keep from bursting into tears, to keep from giving myself away prematurely. I want to tell him everything, but I don’t have the slightest desire to listen to his lies, his excuses. He’s caused me so much pain lately. He’s slandered my soul, hiding behind love and care.
“Gordey,” I close my eyes, swallowing with difficulty the disgusting, bitter lump in my throat, trying to even out my breathing despite the wild tachycardia. “Tell me honestly. You… you want me… for this child not to exist? You don’t need him, do you?”
That micro-pause again. A pause to regroup. A pause to lie. Come on. Come on. Tell the truth. Don’t spare me.
“Varya,” he sighs wearily, “We’ve already discussed this. I love you, only you. And I think this risk… it’s unjustified. Yes. I only need you. Alive. I don’t want to have any memories left, if you know what I mean.”
Oh, of course, now I understood him perfectly. How skillfully he disguises his selfish fear with beautiful words.
Slowly, very carefully, I lower the phone onto the couch, without hitting the end button. Let him listen to the silence. Let him think I’m crying.
My heart is pounding like a caged bird. Now it’s pounding with rage. It’s shaking me so hard my teeth are chattering.
“You’ll get what you wanted, Gordey. I’ll solve your problem. The problem of risk. The problem of the child,” I whisper angrily into the void.
I jump up. I rush into the bedroom. Frantically, I pull an old gym bag out of the closet. I throw the first things I come across into it: a sweater, jeans, some underwear. I act quickly, mercilessly, giving myself no time to think.
The most important thing. Money.
I go to the safe Gordey installed in the wall and punch in the code. I take everything in cash. Gordey always said that a woman should have a “stash” and “her passport at hand.” He, a man of order, was always prepared for any “emergency.” And now I agree with him more than ever.
I glance at my hand. A wedding ring glistens on my ring finger. Massive, expensive. I try to take it off, but my finger is swollen from pregnancy. I have to lather my hand. The ring slips off, and I toss it on the dresser.
Paper. Pen.
The handwriting is uneven, almost unrecognizable.
“Gordey,
I solved the problem you called “risk.” Just like you wanted.
But I will never forgive you for this. Never.
Move on with your life. You’re a selfish dog. I hate you.
He hid behind love, but in reality he simply didn’t want children from me. He’s not a man of honor, but a bastard.”
I crumple up the draft and write a clean slate. I leave a note on his pillow.
I quickly throw on my coat and put on my old, comfortable shoes. I take one last look around our perfect home.
I lean my back against the front door to catch my breath. I place my hands on my stomach, on the place where my miracle, my child “unwanted by his father,” lives and thrives. It hurts, physically hurts, but his presence gives me strength.
“Mom loves you, baby,” I whisper, swallowing back tears. “We don’t need a dad like that. He already has a daughter. Let him raise her. We can handle it. Together.”
