The door opened quietly. My father, Leonid Pavlovich, came in—tall, gray-haired, with a face that looked as if it were carved from stone. He had always been my rock. He quietly placed a bag with water and yogurts on the bedside table, sat on the chair next to the bed, and took my hand in his. His palm was warm and reliable.
“How are you, sweetie?” his voice was quiet, but there was steel in it.
I turned my face to the wall.
“I’m fine.”
“Ksyusha, look at me!”
I slowly turned my head. There was so much pain and anxiety in his eyes that I felt ashamed. I had called him when it all started. Through tears and spasms, I had told him everything.
“Dad, he…” my voice broke. “He said… he was with a woman, not an incubator.”
My father froze. His fingers tightened on my hand so hard that his knuckles turned white. I saw his expression change: from disbelief to realization, from realization to cold, concentrated fury. He didn’t shout, didn’t bang his fist on the table. He just fell silent. And that silence was more frightening than any scream.
“I understand,” he said in a business-like tone, as if discussing the terms of a new contract.
I knew what that meant. My father never forgave betrayal. And what Vadim had done was worse than betrayal. It was a declaration of war, and he had lost it without even knowing it had begun.
Four days in the hospital passed in a blur. I barely slept, spending all my time with the little ones, feeding them, changing their diapers, just looking at their tiny faces. They were my universe, my salvation. I tried not to think about Vadim.
My father called twice a day, asking how I was, and never once mentioned my husband. He came alone to pick me up. He silently helped me get dressed, carefully took the two precious bundles from the nurse, and drove us not home to Vadim, but to his large country house where I grew up.
“You’ll be more peaceful here,” he explained briefly…
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