The nurse asked gently, “Anna Sergeyevna, the documents are ready. Who’s taking you home?”
“I’ll manage,” Anna replied, hiding her exhaustion.
A week after a difficult childbirth, no one had come for her. Ivan hadn’t visited once.
Cradling her newborn daughter, Liza, and with the nurse’s help carrying Mitya, Anna stepped outside. She had just enough money for milk and bread, not for a taxi.
At the bus stop, she clung to hope. Ivan once said, “I want a son and a daughter, just like you.” Fate had given her both—on the same day.
But when she arrived home, she was met with silence and stale air.
“Ivan?” she called out. “We’re home.”
Ivan appeared, tightening his robe. His cold, detached gaze swept over Anna, the babies, and the bags—almost as if he were seeing strangers.
Without emotion, Ivan spoke, “I’ve been thinking… this isn’t for me.”
“But you said—”
“I changed my mind,” he shrugged, as though discarding a broken item. “I’m still young. I want to live my life, not deal with diapers.”
“I’m leaving,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I’ll stay at Seryoga’s for now and figure things out later.”
“The place is in your name. I’m not dealing with custody or child support. Your choice to give birth, your problem now.”
With that, he spat on the floor near the couch, grabbed his bag and coat, and slammed the door behind him.
Anna, overwhelmed with grief and disbelief, crawled to the couch, clutching her babies to her chest. This was her new reality.
“We’ll survive,” she whispered to herself, repeating the mantra that would carry her through the years ahead.
Three years passed.
Anna worked a night shift on the farm, covering for a sick coworker. The children stayed with a neighbor who had become like a second mother to them.
One evening, Anna returned home exhausted but smiling. She carried a loaf of bread, a can of milk, and a bag of caramels.
“Mom!” the children rushed to her, their arms wrapping around her.
“There’s going to be a party at the kindergarten,” she said, catching her breath. “For moms and dads.”
