— And where’s the baby’s dad? Is he helping?
— He left. While I was in the hospital.
Elena sat on the bed, wrapped in a hospital gown, and gazed out through the plastic window through which the outlines of a March day slowly emerged. Outside, the sky was gloomy, and somewhere in the distance, the bare trees rustled faintly. In the transparent stretcher beside her, her daughter slept peacefully—a tiny, fragile little thing, as delicate as a porcelain figurine. In her sleep, the baby sighed, making funny sounds resembling a cat’s purr, and the dark hairs on her head reminded Elena of Oleg.
Oleg… He didn’t come. Neither then, when she lay in the pre-delivery ward, nor now, when their daughter had been born. The last time they spoke was two days ago, when Elena was admitted to the hospital. The phone conversation was brief. His words—“Call when it’s all over”—were cold, distant, devoid of any emotion. Not a question about how she was feeling, not the slightest hint of care or concern.
— And where’s the baby’s dad? Is he helping? — the young nurse with a round, kind face asked again, approaching the stretcher to take the child for a routine checkup.
— He left, — Elena replied, forcing a semblance of a smile. — On business.
The nurse nodded, not surprised by such an answer. Perhaps such stories were common here. Women gave birth, husbands vanished, and life went on.
Two days later, when it was time to leave the hospital, Elena took the elevator with her belongings and her child in her arms. Downstairs, a orderly met her silently, escorting her to the exit. Before stepping outside, the woman asked if someone was there to meet Elena or if she should call a taxi. But Elena declined. The car had been booked in advance. Sitting on a bench by the entrance with her daughter wrapped in a pink envelope with white ears, she felt a strange sense of detachment. As if everything happening was not her life, but someone else’s film in which she was merely a spectator, watching from the sidelines.
The driver turned out to be a silent man of about forty. A cheap watermelon-shaped air freshener dangled from his mirror. He helped load the luggage, started the engine, and the car moved off. Outside, the gray five-story apartment blocks of the sleeping district rushed by, identical as if copied. Their empty windows seemed like indifferent observers of her life.
When she opened the door to her apartment, for the first few seconds nothing appeared strange. Her bag slipped off her shoulder and fell to the floor, the stroller creaked softly on the parquet, and Elena called out:
— Oleg?..
Silence. Even the refrigerator remained mute, as if someone had pulled the plug.
The apartment was empty. This realization did not come immediately, but gradually, like a wave catching you in shallow water. There wasn’t a single one of his jackets on the rack. In the bathroom, his shaving brush and foam had vanished. In the living room—the TV was gone. In the kitchen—the kettle, the microwave, even his favorite mug with the football logo.
Elena sank onto the edge of the sofa—the only piece of furniture left—and stared into the empty kitchen. A veil covered her eyes, but she did not cry. She just sat, staring ahead.
After half an hour, gathering her strength, she took out her phone and texted him. One word: “You left?” The response came almost instantly: “Sorry, it’s better this way. I took everything. The apartment isn’t in your name, but the stuff is mine. I hope you manage.”
The following hours passed as if in a fog. Elena wrapped her daughter, laid her in the crib, sat by the wall in the corridor, and simply stared at the tiled floor. Then she got up, locked the door, and fastened the chain as if it could protect her from what had already happened.
Someone rang the doorbell. Elena flinched, but then she heard a familiar voice—a tall, slightly trembling voice:
— Lena? It’s me, Tamara Ivanovna, your neighbor. I heard you had given birth. Congratulations.
Tamara Ivanovna lived on the landing across the hall. An elderly home economics teacher who loved knitting scarves and hanging them on the heater in the entrance. When Elena opened the door, the neighbor was already handing her a small bag with a washcloth and a tin can.
— Here, I made some compote. And a blanket. It’s old, but warm. My mother knitted it, — she said as she stepped inside, as if entitled to do so.
Elena didn’t object. For the first time in the past day, she felt a little lighter. Tamara Ivanovna gently laid the blanket on the sofa, examined the child, and unexpectedly said:
— My husband did the same trick. He disappeared after my C-section. I was in the hospital, and he left for his hairdresser. But it’s okay. I’m living, breathing, even babysitting my grandchildren. You’ll manage. Just don’t think it’s your fault. There are more like him than you’d think.
Later, when the evening slowly drew darkness over the windows, Elena sat on the window sill with her child in her arms, gazing into the windows of the neighboring houses. Somewhere a woman was setting the table. Somewhere a man in a tank top was taking out the trash. Somewhere children were playing on the floor. She watched and thought: why not me? Why is it that some people are simply allowed to live, while I’ve been dealt this paragraph from someone else’s nightmare?
Soon it was time to change the diaper. She got up, went to the room, and for the first time—still in her coat—lay down next to her daughter. The baby, as if sensing her anxiety, tightly clenched her tiny fist.
The next morning, Elena woke up to the loud banging of the radiator. Someone was doing repairs upstairs, loudly and relentlessly. She got up, went to the mirror, and didn’t recognize herself. Her face had changed—not tired, not gray, but as if it had become more mature. As if something had grown inside her while she slept.
Immediately after feeding, she took her phone and booked an appointment with a psychologist. In 18 days. Far away, at the polyclinic near the bus station.
Two days after being discharged, Elena went outside for the first time—not because she had to, but simply to take a walk. She wrapped the baby in a winter envelope, threw on a jacket over her cozy sweater, and took the elevator down. In the stairwell, she ran into her neighbor—Vera Pavlovna, whom everyone in the yard called Baba Vera. She was famous for her cabbage soup and her worn-out notebook in which she kept a list of utility bill defaulters.
— Don’t be afraid of the cold. It’s even good for the baby, — Baba Vera said, looking closely at Elena’s face. — And why have you become so thin? You need to be fed. I’ve got soup; I still have some from yesterday in my pot. When you get back upstairs, come in. Don’t be stubborn, alright?
Elena didn’t argue. She nodded, thanked her, and went to a bench near the playground. The air was crisp, and barely audible, the branches in the tall trees creaked. On the bench sat Marina, a young mother of about twenty-five, with whom they occasionally greeted each other in the entrance. Marina was holding an older baby, and noticing Elena, she immediately started a conversation.
— Oh, hello! Did you just have a baby? We’re on the third floor. I’m Marina. I didn’t see you with a stroller earlier.
— Elena. I just got back from the maternity ward. Actually, I’m stepping out for the second time.
— Phew, well, congrats then, as they say. Don’t worry, we’re all the same here. We even have a Telegram chat—“Moms of the 4th Courtyard.” It’s about doctors, diapers, and where the sales are. Give me your number—I’ll add you. And don’t look so lost; I cried every day during my first month. It’s normal.
Their conversation was interrupted by a woman with a bag from the pharmacy. She approached Marina, they exchanged a few words. The woman was from the neighboring entrance; her name was Tanya, she had three children and a husband who was constantly off on trips. Marina quickly introduced them, and Tanya asked Elena:
— How’s your first month of motherhood? Tough?
Elena hesitated, trying to find the words. But the lie got stuck somewhere in her throat, and she told the truth:
— He left. While I was in the hospital.
Tanya only nodded, as if such stories were common to her. She paused, then added with gentle conviction:
— Listen, if you need anything, we know a lawyer. He helps mothers deal with alimony and all those documents. Free of charge. I’ll send you his contact. Don’t delay.
When the walk ended, Elena went upstairs, opened the apartment door, and heard the familiar creak of the parquet underfoot. For the first time in a long while, she felt that this silence was becoming a part of her life. A quarter of an hour later, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Baba Vera, holding a pot wrapped in an old kitchen towel and a small notebook.
— Here, take this. Potato soup with meatballs. Light. And this is a list of things that might come in handy. I have some extra diapers and a bottle warmer somewhere. I’ll ask my daughter; she knows where everything is kept. Now tell me: have you filed for alimony yet?
— Not yet. I just made an appointment with a psychologist. It’s in two weeks.
— A psychologist is good. But alimony is even better. Men only respond to paper. Go to the MFC, right there at the intersection near the bus stop. Take your documents: the birth certificate, your passport. Say you need a consultation on alimony. They’ll help you.
The next day, choosing a moment when the baby was asleep, Elena went to the MFC. The line was long, but there was an amazing silence. People waited patiently; some absentmindedly scrolled through their phones, some simply stared into space. She took a number, and after forty minutes she was invited into a room.
A young man of about thirty, introducing himself as Artyom, listened carefully to her story, glanced at his monitor, and asked:
— You weren’t officially married? Then you need to file a statement to establish paternity and claim alimony. But you’ll need proof of cohabitation, a certificate from the maternity ward, copies of your correspondence, if any. The more documents, the better. We have templates—I’ll print them out for you.
While he spoke, Elena watched him and thought how strange it was to hear the story of her life discussed in such a businesslike manner, as if it were just another task on a checklist. But that was exactly what she needed now—not sympathy, but a clear set of actions.
Leaving the MFC, she walked slowly, pondering what she had heard. Nearby was a bakery where she and Oleg often used to buy bread. Elena caught herself as her feet carried her toward the courtyard instead of the bakery. She wasn’t ready to face those memories yet.
At home, her baby greeted her with peaceful sleep. Elena stood by the crib, straightened the blanket, and then heard her phone ring. It was Marina.
— Len, there’s something… Would you mind coming to a moms’ meeting? We’re gathering on the weekends at Katya’s grandmother’s place. It’s nearby, in the courtyard, in a warm room. There’s tea, toys, and no one pressuring anyone. Just a chat. I’ll meet you if you want.
Three days later, on a Sunday, Elena came to that very room for the first time. It was in the basement of a residential building, but it was surprisingly cozy: a soft carpet on the floor, an old leather sofa from which children would constantly slide off while laughing. The women sat in a semicircle, some holding children, others leafing through sticker albums. Elena was accepted without questions, as if she had always been part of the group.
One of the women, Olga, was the first to speak:
— I’ve been on my own for three years. My husband left when our son was a month old. Now I don’t even miss him. I work, rent an apartment, take my child to kindergarten. Just like normal people. Only everything takes a little longer. A bit slower.
—I don’t even know what to do, — Elena said, feeling her voice tremble slightly. — He disappeared. Took everything. Even the frying pan.
Marina winked at her:
— At least now you can buy any frying pan you want. Even one with a lid. You have the freedom to choose, Len. It’s a small baby, but still—freedom.
There was something in that simple joke that made Elena smile genuinely for the first time in a long while, without any tension.
When she returned home, the stroller slightly bounced on the pavement, and the wind played with her hair. Near the entrance stood Baba Vera again with a new little notebook.
— Here, look. I jotted down a recipe for porridge with goat’s milk. It’s great at three months. And one more thing—you’re a good mom. It shows. Just don’t ever think otherwise.
Elena took the notebook, gripped the handle of the stroller tighter, and nodded. She really wanted to be a good mom. Not perfect. Not strong. But genuine.
Morning. Eleven o’clock. Elena stood in the hallway, trying to button her coat over a casual t-shirt, one hand holding the baby in a sling, the other fishing for her keys in her pocket. She was late. Today was her first meeting with the lawyer that Tanya had recommended, the one from the neighboring entrance with three kids. The legal consultation was held at the Center for the Support of Women and Mothers, a small office on the first floor of a former kindergarten. The space had been donated for a community initiative. It was run by a woman in her forties named Larisa Mikhailovna, formerly a lawyer, then a mother of three, and now an activist.
Larisa Mikhailovna herself opened the door when Elena knocked.
— You must be Elena? Come in, I’ve been expecting you, — she said warmly, leading her into a room with small-flowered wallpaper and low bookshelves along the walls. — Please, sit down. You can put the baby here; we have a rocking chair with a cushion.
Elena settled in awkwardly but gratefully. The girl had already dozed off as the lawyer spread out papers on the table.
— Establishing paternity isn’t as scary as it seems. But if he already has another family, be prepared: he might stall, hide, or contest it. Did he work officially?
— He worked as a logistics man for a private company. Now, I don’t know. We’re not in touch.
— Alright. Let’s start with the basics. Here’s the statement, here’s the petition form. Date, signature—and we’ll send it to the court today.
While Larisa Mikhailovna typed, Elena noticed a photograph on the shelf: a woman in a judge’s robe, with three boys sporting identical haircuts beside her. On the back of the frame, a marker had written: “Grew up on their own—now we raise each other.”
When Elena left the Center, she felt like a different person. Tired, but with a new sensation—almost as if the day hadn’t been in vain. She turned toward the grocery store and, as she approached, heard someone call out:
— Len, wait!
A girl in a black jacket with a voluminous hood ran up to her. It was Dasha, a former colleague from the accounting department. They hadn’t seen each other in almost a year.
— I recognized you from the window; my office is here. What brings you out?
— Oh, you know… just running errands, — Elena smiled shyly. — And you? Still at the same place?
— Yes. We were recently merged into another division; now our documents are copied three times over, and it’s all for nothing. And you? Where are you working?
— Nowhere. I’m on maternity leave. This is my daughter.
Dasha looked her over.
— You’re a copy, listen. And what about Oleg? — she asked, not sure where to look.
Elena froze. She decided not to soften the blow.
— He left. While I was in the maternity ward.
— Damn. Really? — Dasha faltered. — I’m sorry… I didn’t know.
— It’s all right, — Elena answered quietly but firmly. — Everything’s different now.
They said their goodbyes on the corner, and once home, after Elena had put the baby to bed and sat on the sofa, her phone buzzed briefly. Dasha had sent a link. At first, Elena didn’t want to open it, but eventually she did.
It was a social media page. The profile belonged to a girl named Snezhana. The photo—an apartment in a new building, a rounded belly under a shirt, and the caption: “Waiting for you, our baby. Thank you, my love.”
In the background—there was a cupboard that Elena recognized exactly. She and Oleg had assembled it together last autumn.
Her fingers went numb. She put the phone down and just sat. For about ten minutes. Then she went to the balcony, opened the window, letting in the cold air. The baby stirred, and Elena immediately returned to her, tucked her in tighter, and ran her hand over her forehead.
Another ring at the door. She opened it—Marina, the same neighbor they now often talked with, stood holding a white box.
— This is for you. No, it’s not food. It’s a changing mat. We had an extra one. How are you?
Elena took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and looked directly into Marina’s eyes.
— I just found out that he has another family now. He’s living with someone else. And she’s pregnant.
Marina silently sat down on a nearby stool, as if sensing that Elena especially needed someone close right now.
— I knew about it, — she confessed calmly. — Just didn’t want to tell you prematurely. I have a friend who works in the same residential complex where they’ve settled. But listen… Let it be. The main thing is, don’t let them drag you into their story. You’re writing your own life. And you’re the main character.
After these words, Marina gently touched Elena’s hand, emphasizing the importance of what she said. At that moment, Elena felt her heart soften a little, even though the pain still rang within.
That evening, she decided to walk to the local library—the very one where they lent out children’s books for free. There was always a special atmosphere of coziness: old shelves, the smell of paper, soft lighting, and quiet conversations. This time, Elena chose several brightly colored cardboard books for her baby, and an unexpectedly warm conversation with the librarian turned out to be a comfort.
The woman in a knitted vest, who introduced herself as Nadezhda Alekseevna, noticed the stroller and immediately started a conversation.
— Did you just become a mom? Handling it on your own? You know, we recently organized a little corner for moms here. A very cozy spot: a comfortable chair, a blanket, toys. If you just want to sit, come by. Sometimes three or four people gather, sometimes more. Even if no one talks—still, it gets easier.
When leaving, Elena took a brochure titled “You Are Not Alone. Support for Moms in Difficult Times.” Those words resonated deeply with her.
The next morning, while checking the mailbox, she found a white envelope. Back home, she opened it. It was an official notification from the court. Her statement had been accepted. The first hearing was scheduled for a month later.
Elena held the paper up to the light, read it several times. And only then did she notice that, for the first time in a long while, her chest wasn’t weighed down by its usual heaviness. Of course, it wasn’t joy. But it was as if someone had subtly removed the heavy bag she’d been carrying all those months, even without realizing it.
That evening, the baby fell asleep early. Elena went out to the stairwell, sat on the steps, and wrote a short message to Marina.
“Thank you for pulling me out.”
The response came almost instantly.
“You would have made it on your own. But we’re here if you need us. We’re family now.”
Those simple words warmed her heart.
On Monday morning, Elena walked through the long corridor of the local polyclinic, carefully holding the ticket she’d received almost three weeks ago when everything seemed hopelessly difficult. Now she pushed the stroller with her daughter and noted how quickly her feelings had shifted—from anxiety to readiness to act. She wasn’t sure what she’d say, but she knew one thing for certain—she wouldn’t remain silent.
Room No. 24. The sign read: “Psychologist.” Voices could be heard through the door. Then a young woman with a child in her arms came out. For a moment, she caught Elena’s eye, nodded, and passed by. Elena entered.
The psychologist’s name was Irina Lvovna. A woman of about fifty, dressed in a spacious gray blouse, her hair tied in a loose bun. There were two chairs in the room, with a box of toys between them. On the windowsill stood a dusty but living ficus. Everything looked unpretentious, with no hint of a pompous office for “soulful” conversations.
— Have a seat, Elena, — Irina Lvovna said with a gentle smile. — You can hold your baby, or put her in that stroller over there. No one’s in a hurry. Where shall we begin?
Elena paused for a moment, gathering her thoughts.
— I just don’t understand who I am anymore, — she said softly. — I once thought I was a wife. Then— that I was a mom. Now I feel suspended between those roles.
The conversation lasted forty minutes. Irina Lvovna rarely interrupted, only occasionally asking clarifying questions. Elena spoke about everything: about betrayal, about Oleg’s new apartment, about Marina and Baba Vera, about long lines and a pot of soup, about a box of diapers. But most importantly, she spoke about her daughter—the reason she held on every day.
— You think everything relies on trust. But you already have a foundation. You are not just the one who lost; you are the one who rebuilt herself, — Irina Lvovna concluded at the end of the session.
After the appointment, Elena didn’t immediately go home. She stopped by the library—the very one with the children’s corner. There, Nadezhda Alekseevna, the librarian she already knew, was waiting.
— Back already? Good. We meet here on Thursdays. We discuss what to read to the kids and ourselves. If you’d like, come by. And bring your daughter. There’s already one little one here, been here for two weeks.
Elena nodded. She made no promises, but suddenly felt that she really wanted to come.
Outside, she encountered Svetlana, a mom from the courtyard with whom she had only exchanged brief words before. Svetlana was carrying grocery bags and, upon seeing Elena, approached.
— Len, hi. Listen, I’ve been looking for you. Remember you mentioned the Center where they helped with documents? I went there. Now I want to file in court too. Thank you. And here… this is for you. — She handed Elena a package containing a tiny jumpsuit. — Our little one’s grown now. And you, you’re growing up too.
On her way back, by the door, Baba Vera was waiting with a small thermos. Seeing Elena, she immediately began talking.
— Today I made compote, my grandson came to visit, but he won’t stay. He said he’s got work. You can take the jar if you want, or pour it out. I won’t be offended. But better drink it. You need your vitamins.
Elena took the jar, set it on the kitchen table, then took off her coat, put her daughter in the crib, sat in the armchair, and took out her phone. She opened her conversation with Oleg. The last message was from her: “You left?”—it just hung there. No answer. Neither then nor later. No explanations. She stared at the screen and suddenly realized that she didn’t want to read or write anymore.
She wiped everything. Cleared the chat. Closed the app. It wasn’t even about him anymore. It was about her.
That evening, she met with Marina and Tanya by the bench in the courtyard. They now gathered every Friday, with thermoses, sandwiches, and children who either screamed or fell asleep in arms.
— So, how was the psychologist? — Marina asked, opening a bottle of water.
— Calmly. No confessions, but it was necessary. She said that I’m holding on. I just don’t admit it to myself, — Elena replied.
— She’s right, — Tanya confirmed. — I remember the first time I saw you, you could barely stand. And now— look at you. Your cheeks have come back. Even your expression is different.
— That’s because I’m finally getting alimony, — Elena grinned. — Almost enough for a pack of diapers. And also—I have an interview tomorrow. For a part-time job. As an accountant, three hours a day, remote.
— That’s amazing! — Marina clapped her hands. — That’s not just “holding on.” That’s— living.
The next day, upon waking up, Elena first looked at her daughter. The baby lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and smiling. Elena sat down beside her, leaned over, and whispered:
— You know, today I woke up and didn’t think about him. Not for a single second.
The little one giggled, as if she understood.