The baby, bundled in a soft blue blanket, dozed peacefully in Yulia’s arms, breathing with tiny snuffles and occasionally wrinkling his little nose. A nurse offered to escort her to the exit, but Yulia declined—even though she still felt drained and shaky after giving birth.
“I’m fine. I’ll manage,” she murmured, pulling her son closer while fishing for her phone in her pocket.
For five long days she’d waited for discharge, picturing how Artyom would greet their newborn. She’d dreamed of the moment he’d scoop her up with the baby in his arms—radiant with love and happiness.
Careful not to jostle the sleeping bundle, Yulia took out her phone and saw a message from her husband: “I’m on my way. Don’t come out without me.” Her lips curved into a smile. Artyom had always enjoyed making surprises—maybe today he’d planned something special.
The tiny lump under the blanket stirred, smacked his lips, and settled again. Yulia gently pulled the fabric aside to look at the small face.
Nikita.
Her and Artyom’s miracle—the child they’d waited so long for. Nearly seven years of chasing the dream, and seven years of marriage.
“Daddy’s coming, my little one,” she whispered, straightening the edge of the blanket.
Her phone vibrated again.
“Things have changed. I’ll meet you after you get a DNA test. Otherwise there’s no point.”
Yulia reread the text over and over, trying to force meaning into it. The letters swam before her eyes, as if taunting everything she’d hoped for.
“Artyom… are you serious?” she whispered hoarsely into the empty corridor.
The phone rang. His name lit up the screen. With trembling fingers and a rising sense of dread, Yulia answered.
“What does this mean?” Her voice sounded sharper than she recognized.
“Yul, let’s not make a scene, okay?” Artyom replied calmly, as if they were discussing what to buy at the store. “You understand I need to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” Something inside her dropped away. The baby sensed her tension, squirmed, and started crying.
“Sure this child is actually mine,” Artyom said patiently. “We tried for years, and then suddenly… well, you know.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Her voice shook with anger. “Come pick us up—we just left the maternity hospital. He’s your son, damn it!”
“Do you know where you can shove your paranoia?” she hissed, hot tears rolling down her cheeks. “My mother will pick Nikita and me up. I don’t want to see you again.”
“Yulia, don’t be stupid,” he said, still in that even tone. “Think it through.”
She ended the call. Now Nikita was crying at full volume, his tiny face red with distress.
“Shh, shh… it’s okay, sweetheart,” Yulia soothed, rocking him while wiping her own tears.
With shaking hands, she dialed her mother.
“Mom, please come get us,” she said, trying to hide the tremble in her voice. “Artyom… he isn’t coming.”
How could she explain what had happened? How could she even understand why her husband was demanding a DNA test?
Twenty minutes later, a familiar car pulled up to the hospital. Elena Sergeyevna jumped out, holding an armful of blue balloons.
“Where’s Artyom?” she asked immediately, glancing past her daughter.
Yulia only shook her head, clutching Nikita, who had begun to calm down.
“I’ll tell you later, Mom. Let’s go home.”
And without looking back at the building where she’d felt like the happiest woman alive just a short while ago, Yulia got into the car beside her mother.
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced down automatically.
“Think carefully, Yulia. This matters to all of us. And… I didn’t mean to hurt you, for what it’s worth.”
She switched the phone off. She couldn’t deal with him anymore.
By evening, Nikita finally fell asleep in an old crib Grandma had pulled down from the top shelf. Yulia sat at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of mint tea. That message kept flashing in her mind like a wound that wouldn’t close.
“Seven years, Mom,” she said quietly, staring at the pale wallpaper. “Seven years of treatment. Of hoping, believing. The doctors said the issue was on his side. And now…”
Elena Sergeyevna sighed heavily.
“Maybe he’s just scared of responsibility. Men can be like that. They want a baby, and then when it actually happens, they panic.”
“A DNA test, Mom,” Yulia snapped. “He’s demanding a DNA test! Like I cheated on him. What does that have to do with responsibility?”
She covered her face, and the tears she’d held back all day finally spilled out.
Memories from the past year surfaced on their own—back to the day she came home after yet another appointment with a specialist.
The older doctor, thick glasses magnifying his eyes, had scratched at his sparse beard for a long time before speaking.
“In theory, there is still a chance, my dear,” he’d said. “But your husband will need treatment. At this stage the probability of pregnancy from him is extremely low. You may want to consider other options.”
That day Yulia had sobbed in the car, unable to make herself go home. How could she tell Artyom that six years of effort and hope had led to almost nothing? Almost—because the chance, technically, still existed.
When she finally found the courage to tell him, Artyom surprised her with how calm he was. He took her hand and said:
“We’ll find a way, Yul. If we have to, we’ll do IVF. And if it doesn’t work, we’ll adopt.”
She’d loved him even more in that moment. Through hardships, arguments, resentment—he had always been her support.
And now that text about a DNA test felt impossible. How? Why? Where had this come from?
“You… you definitely didn’t try those… donor options?” Elena Sergeyevna asked carefully, pressing her lips together.
“Mom!” Yulia jerked her head up, her voice trembling with outrage. “What donor options? This is our child—mine and Artyom’s! We just… kept trying, and it happened. A miracle, do you understand? And he…”
Her tears spilled again, no matter how hard she tried to hold herself together. Elena Sergeyevna sighed and hugged her daughter’s shoulders tighter.
“Shh. Calm down. Sometimes men react strangely to big changes. Talk to him. Explain everything. He’ll come to his senses.”
Yulia shook her head, thinking of the last months of pregnancy. Artyom had been happy, yes—but his happiness had seemed forced, restrained. He did what was expected: went with her to appointments, picked out baby clothes, toys, a crib. But it felt more like duty than emotion.
And then there were the questions she’d once brushed off as ordinary anxiety:
“Are you sure you didn’t stay late at Sergey’s company party? You said you were working…”
“And why is Petya from accounting on your VK friends list?”
Little things that had seemed harmless at the time now looked different. Maybe those doubts had pushed Artyom to this.
She’d turned her phone back on at some point, and it vibrated again. A new message from her husband: “Yulia, where are you? Are you okay?”
She set the device aside. A conversation with Artyom was inevitable—but right now she needed time to breathe and think.
On the third morning at her mother’s apartment, Yulia woke to bright sunlight and Nikita’s crying. She stretched, trying to ignore the dull ache low in her abdomen, and lifted her son into her arms.
“Okay, my little one… okay,” she whispered, rocking him. Then she heard the doorbell.
Elena Sergeyevna—already dressed to go out—glanced toward the hallway.
“I’ll get it. You’re busy,” she said, disappearing around the corner.
Yulia went tense the moment she recognized her husband’s voice. Artyom sounded impatient.
“Hello, Elena Sergeyevna. Is Yulia home?”
“Yes, but she’s feeding Nikita. Wait a bit.”
“Of course. I’ll wait,” he replied, and the impatience in his voice didn’t fully leave.
Ten minutes later, once Nikita had fallen asleep after feeding, Yulia handed him to his grandmother and slowly walked into the living room. Artyom stood by the window, rolling his keys in his hand. When he saw her, he froze.
“Yul,” he began, stepping closer. “Why aren’t you answering? I was worried.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, like a shield between them.
“Are you sure you needed to reach me?” she said coldly. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to forget about us until a DNA test confirmed your suspicions?”
Artyom flinched, as if in pain.
“Let’s talk normally. Please.”
Yulia hesitated, then nodded once. They went to the kitchen. Artyom sat down opposite her, avoiding her eyes.
“Yul, I just want to be certain,” he repeated, as if that single phrase could excuse everything.
“Certain of what?” Her voice was sharp. “That I didn’t cheat on you? Or that I didn’t use donor material behind your back? Both are equally insulting.”
“It’s not personal suspicion,” Artyom tried to reach for her hand, but she pulled away. “It’s just… the doctors said the chances were minimal. And then suddenly—”
“Minimal isn’t zero!” Yulia felt her anger boil. “Do you have any idea how painful it is to realize my own husband thinks I could do something like that?”
“Yul, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” his voice softened. “It’s just… at work I heard a lot of stories…”
“Stories?” she scoffed. “What kind of stories, exactly?”
“Ignat in our marketing department,” Artyom said, choosing his words carefully. “His wife gave birth, and later it turned out the baby wasn’t his. Can you imagine what that did to him? And online there are tons of cases like that. People write comments, say men should do tests right at the hospital. It’s not for nothing.”
“What?” Yulia stared at him, stunned. “You’re comparing me to women from someone else’s life? To strangers? To people who actually betrayed their husbands? How can you even make that comparison?”
“I’m not saying you’re like them,” Artyom said, clearly rattled. “I just want to make sure.”
“Make sure?” She gave a bitter laugh. “After seven years of marriage? After everything we’ve been through? And you decided the easiest thing to do was to ‘check’ me?”
Nikita, as if sensing the tension, started crying in the other room. Yulia shot up.
“Enough. I’m done talking about this. If you want that test so badly—fine. Do it. But know this: after it, nothing will be the same.”
She walked out, leaving Artyom sitting there, face like stone. She picked up her son and whispered soothing words, but inside her something was splitting apart.
The DNA sample collection was simple. Yulia stood nearby holding the baby and didn’t look at her husband once. Every shared moment between them felt like a fresh cut.
“Results will be ready in a week,” the nurse said, sealing the samples into special containers.
“A week?” Artyom tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. “Can it be faster?”
“There’s an express option. For an additional fee you’ll get results in three days.”
“Great. Do that,” Artyom said, pulling out his card without taking his eyes off his wife.
Yulia watched silently. Three days or a week—none of it mattered anymore. The real loss was the trust that had vanished between them.
As they left the clinic, Artyom tried to take her arm.
“Careful,” he said, helping her down the steps.
She yanked her arm away.
“Don’t pretend you care about my well-being.”
“I really do care,” he insisted. He sounded sincere, but Yulia no longer believed him. “Yul, why are you reacting so aggressively? Why can’t you understand my side?”
“Understand?” She stopped right on the sidewalk, drawing a few glances from passersby. “How am I supposed to react? Smile and nod while my husband assumes I’m capable of cheating? While he chooses suspicion over trust?”
“I never said you cheated!” Artyom raised his voice, then lowered it again. “It’s just… things happen.”
“Like what?” Yulia looked straight into his eyes. “Give me one real reason you started doubting me.”
Artyom went silent, lost. Finally he muttered, “I just… want to be sure. That’s all.”
“Sure,” her voice broke. “After all we lived through. After every attempt, every hope, every fear. Don’t you see how wrong this is?”
He said nothing, only tugged nervously at his shirt collar. Yulia knew she wouldn’t get an answer. Sometimes not knowing was the only way to keep even a shred of dignity.
Back home, she laid Nikita in his cradle and sat beside him, covering her face with her hands. Now she understood: their relationship would never return to what it was. Trust can’t be rebuilt when it’s shattered by one doubt, one sentence.
By the evening of the third day, Artyom called. His voice was tight and strained.
“Yulia, can I come by? We need to talk.”
“Come,” she said curtly, though her chest tightened.
When he entered, she met him with a cold stare. He held out flowers, but she turned her head away.
“You’re right,” he began, sitting on the edge of the couch. “I should’ve trusted you from the start. Those stories… they scared me. I was terrified of ending up like Ignat.”
“And what then?” her voice was quiet, every word soaked in pain. “How can you compare me to strangers you don’t even know?”
“No, I can’t,” he admitted, stepping forward. She stepped back. “Yul, I love you. And I love Nikita. This test won’t change anything.”
“It will,” her voice shook. “It already has. You destroyed what we spent years building. Now it’s only a matter of time before I decide whether there’s even a point in continuing this marriage.”
Artyom lowered his head, understanding he’d made a mistake that couldn’t be undone. And Yulia already knew: there was no road back. Even if the test proved Nikita was his son, something between them had cracked forever.