I was sitting in the kitchen, staring into an empty cup. Outside, the rain poured relentlessly, and inside me grew a heavy emptiness. Andrey and I had argued again. He slammed the door and left, leaving me alone in the house of his parents. I felt like an unwanted guest, crushed, lost.
“Are you okay?” a voice behind me made me startle. It was Igor — Andrey’s younger brother. He was standing in the doorway with a plate of sandwiches. “You haven’t eaten anything today. Have something.”
I looked up, and tears streamed down my cheeks. Unlike his older brother, Igor was calm, attentive, with kind brown eyes that seemed to see right into my soul. He sat down beside me, hugged me, and I buried my face in his shoulder, sobbing.
“Everything will be alright,” he whispered, gently stroking my back. “You’re not alone.”
At that moment, I didn’t think about the consequences. I just needed to be heard. To be understood.
A month passed. The fights with Andrey didn’t stop. He started staying late at work more often, coming home cold and distant. And Igor… Igor was there. He brought me coffee in the mornings, told jokes to make me smile at least a little. One evening, when no one was home and Andrey hadn’t returned again, everything changed.
We were watching a movie on the couch. Igor, as always, hugged me. But this time his arms lingered longer than usual. I looked at him, and something new flashed in his eyes — desire, anxiety, and something else that couldn’t be put into words.
“This is wrong,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“I know,” he replied. “But I can’t pretend anymore that I don’t care about you.”
We both knew what we were doing. And no one stopped.
A month later I was standing in the bathroom holding a pregnancy test. Two lines. The world froze. I was pregnant. But from whom?
From Andrey, with whom we were still together, no matter what? Or from Igor, with whom I had just one night?
Hiding the test in my pocket, I went to the kitchen. Andrey was home. For the first time in a long while, he looked at me warmly.
“You look pale,” he said, coming closer. “Did something happen?”
Unable to hold back, I burst into tears and blurted out:
“I’m pregnant.”
His face brightened. He hugged me tightly, so tightly I could barely breathe.
“This is our child,” he whispered. “I already love him.”
I smiled through my tears, but inside I felt a knot of fear tighten. He was sure it was his child. And I didn’t know the truth.
I couldn’t stay in that house anymore. Every look, every touch Andrey gave my belly cut like a knife. Igor was silent, but I saw how he looked at me — with hope and suffering. I couldn’t take it.
“I’m leaving,” I said one evening. “We need to live separately.”
He begged, pleaded, shouted, but I remained firm. I packed my things and went to a friend’s place. A couple of months later, Igor found me.
“I can’t live without you,” he said, standing at the door. “I want to be with you. With you and the child.”
I looked at him and understood: I loved him. Not like I had loved Andrey before — deeper, calmer. We started dating, then he proposed. I agreed. Now I’m married to Igor. He accepted my son as his own.
But the truth still followed me like a shadow.
My son turned two years old. He looks like both of them — the same brown eyes, the same stubborn chin. Sometimes I catch Igor’s gaze when he looks at my son, and I feel like he suspects something. Andrey also visits — he’s sure that the boy is his son, and I can’t forbid him.
“He’s just like me,” Andrey says, playing with the little one. “My son.”
I smile, but inside everything freezes. What if someone decides to do a test? What if the truth comes out anyway?
“Are you happy?” Igor asked recently while we were putting our son to bed.
“Yes,” I lied, leaning into my husband. “Very.”
But I’m not happy. I live in fear. Every night I wonder: Should I tell him or stay silent? Take a test and find out the truth? Or leave everything as it is, hoping no one will ever know?
“Mommy,” my son calls, reaching out his hands. I pick him up, breathe in his scent, and think: for him, I must be strong. But how?
A year passed, and the secret I carry inside hasn’t gone away. It became part of me — like an invisible scar that aches on rainy evenings. My son Artyom is now three years old. He grows, runs, laughs, builds towers from blocks. And I look at him and see the features of both men connected to me.
Igor, my husband, remains caring and gentle. He gets up at night, reads stories, makes breakfast. But sometimes I catch his gaze on our son — as if he’s trying to find the answer to a question he’s afraid to ask aloud.
“Do you want to say something?” he asked once, lying beside me in the dark. His voice was soft but tinged with anxiety.
I froze. My heart pounded, but I just shook my head.
“No, it’s okay,” I lied, hiding my face in his shoulder.
Andrey hasn’t disappeared from our lives either. He comes, brings gifts, takes Artyom for walks. And every time he repeats the same thing:
“He looks so much like me. Especially his eyes. My eyes.”
I smile. But inside, everything turns cold. I feel the fragile world I built is hanging by a thread.
Then one evening during dinner, after Artyom had gone to bed, everything changed. Igor and I were drinking wine, talking about trivial things, but I saw — something was gnawing at him. He fiddled with a napkin, avoided my gaze. And suddenly, he put down his fork and looked me straight in the eyes…
“I have to tell you something,” he began, and my insides clenched. “I took a paternity test.”
The world seemed to lose its shape all at once. I grabbed the edge of the table to keep from collapsing.
“What?” My voice trembled. “When did you do that? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” Igor looked away. “But I had to know. Artyom… he’s not my biological son.”
Tears burned my eyes. My throat tightened as if an invisible hand squeezed it. He looked at me with so much pain that I couldn’t utter a word.
“Is it Andrey?” he asked quietly. “You were with him?”
I was silent. What could I say? That I didn’t know myself? That I was most afraid of this truth?
“I don’t know,” I finally whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Igor, I’m not sure. It could have happened then… with you or with him. I didn’t want it to happen like this.”
He stood up, walked to the window, froze. I waited for shouting, accusations, the slam of a door. But he just stood there, staring into the darkness.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His voice was hoarse. “I would have understood. I would have stayed.”
“I was afraid,” I sobbed. “Afraid to lose you. Afraid you wouldn’t forgive me.”
He turned, and in his eyes, love and pain swirled together.
“I love Artyom,” he said. “And I love you. But I need time.”
Igor went to the living room, and I didn’t sleep all night. His words haunted me. If he took the test, Andrey could have done the same. I couldn’t live with this tension anymore. The next day, I called him.
We met in a café. Artyom was with his grandmother, so we talked without interruptions. Andrey looked tired but smiled when he saw me.
“You wanted to talk?” he asked, sipping coffee.
I gathered my strength. This moment scared me the most.
“Andrey, I have to tell you something,” I began, my voice trembling. “When we were together… I had a relationship with Igor. And I don’t know who Artyom’s father is.”
He froze. His face went pale. The cup in his hand trembled.
“You… cheated on me with my brother?” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
I nodded, looking down. Shame tore me apart inside.
“And Artyom might not be mine?” His voice broke.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Igor took a test, and Artyom is not his son. So most likely…”
“So, he’s mine,” Andrey interrupted, hope shining in his eyes. “I want to do a test. I have to know for sure.”
A week later, Andrey got the result: Artyom was his son. I sat in the kitchen, staring at the piece of paper, feeling a huge weight lift off my shoulders. The truth came out. All that remained was to accept it.
Igor came to me when he found out the result. He looked tired but resolute.
“I won’t leave,” he said. “Artyom is my son, even if not by blood. I raised him, I love him. But please — be honest with me. Always.”
I nodded, crying with relief. We hugged, and for the first time in a long while, I felt I could breathe again.
Andrey didn’t disappear from our lives. He started seeing Artyom more often but agreed that Igor remained the real father to him. We decided to tell the truth to the child when he’s ready, but for now, we’ll live as we are.
Today, I watch my son play in the sandbox and feel peace for the first time in many years. The truth was painful, but it freed me. I no longer hide or fear. Igor is by my side. Andrey is part of our story. And Artyom grows surrounded by love.
I don’t know what awaits us in the future. Maybe questions. Maybe new challenges. But I no longer want to live a lie. I chose honesty. And this choice gave me a chance to start over.