“I can hear you perfectly!” he yelled, shouting over the music. “Stop being hysterical. Can’t you just call an ambulance like a normal person? Don’t you dare bother me with trivial matters!”
“This isn’t trivial!” I screamed. “You’re my husband! You’re supposed to be here!”
He laughed maliciously:
“I’m supposed to be building our future, not holding your hand while you perform your biological function.”
The female laughter in the background grew louder, more distinct. I heard someone whisper coquettishly, “Vadim, come here, don’t get distracted.”
“Vadim, who is with you?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.
And he delivered his verdict. Angry, final, leaving not a single chance for a future.
“Stop trying to control me. Don’t call me. I’m with a woman, not an incubator.”
The line went dead. I stared at the dark screen of my phone, and the pain of the contractions mixed with another, much more terrible pain. An incubator. That’s what I was to him. Not a beloved woman, not the mother of his children, but just a function, a vessel. Tears streamed from my eyes, blurring everything around me in a fog.
I slid down the wall to the floor, torn apart by pain and despair. I was alone. In the most important and terrifying moment of my life, he didn’t just abandon me—he destroyed me, threw me away like a useless thing.
And at that moment, lying on the floor in an empty apartment, I realized that the old Ksyusha no longer existed. He had killed her. And the one who remained had to survive for the sake of those who were about to be born. With a shaking hand, I found my father’s number in my contacts.
The maternity ward smelled of sterility and baby powder. Somewhere behind the wall, a baby was crying, and a gentle female voice immediately soothed it. I lay there, staring at the white ceiling.
My children, my daughters, were sleeping in special incubators in the nursery. They were born small but strong. The doctors said they would be fine. But for me, “fine” no longer existed…
