The kettle had been boiling for several minutes, yet Anya still sat on the sofa with her arms folded, unable to move. She had found the kettle in a dumpster—someone had thoughtfully placed it in a cardboard box with “WORKS” scrawled on the side in black marker. And it really did work, except it wouldn’t switch off by itself; you had to press the button. On legs that felt like cotton, Anya got up, didn’t bother turning it off, simply lifted it from the base and poured the roiling water into a plastic tub of instant noodles. She covered it and, since she had to wait a couple of minutes for them to steep anyway, trudged resignedly to the bathroom.
The toilet was shared by two rooms. Glancing around warily, she slipped inside, hiding a small plastic packet in her hands. She’d never taken a pregnancy test before, but somehow she knew exactly what to do.
Whether it was the constant stench of this semi‑public place or the sight of two lines on the narrow paper strip, Anya retched so hard that bitter bile came up. She washed her face with cold water and rinsed her mouth. So it was true. She was pregnant.
The noodles tasted utterly bland, and she no longer felt like eating, but as she scooped up the curly strands with a plastic fork she could avoid thinking, for a moment, about what to do next. She didn’t want this baby under any circumstances—yet she couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it the way her mother always had.
Her mother had abortions often. Those were the only days Anya loved her. First, on those days her mother didn’t drink, and for a couple of days afterward too, because the one time she drank right after an abortion she ended up in the hospital bleeding so badly she nearly died. Sober, her mother was kind, called her “Anyechka” and never hit her. Second, Anya pitied her mother’s suffering; she saw the genuine pain and, at about five years old, decided she would never go through that herself. Her mother would say:
“Be grateful—I spared your life, unlike your sister’s.”
Sometimes it was a brother instead of a sister. Back then Anya thought the doctors told her mother what the fetus would have been, but now she knew her mom just made it up. Still, Anya couldn’t rid herself of an imaginary family photo: she secretly gave every unborn child a name. There were seven of them—maybe more; she eventually lost count.
Anya decided not to tell anyone at work about her condition; she didn’t plan on taking maternity leave or anything—she’d give birth at the appointed time, leave the baby at the hospital, and that would be that. She couldn’t afford to lose the job—there was nowhere else to go. She would never return to her mother. Not for anything in the world. Besides, she didn’t really feel pregnant. The morning sickness had passed, her belly hadn’t grown; only her breasts were slightly bigger. Sometimes she even forgot someone was inside her.
She remembered only when that someone started to kick. At first she didn’t connect the odd fluttering with the pregnancy; only later, when the kicks grew clearer and stronger, did she realize—of course, it’s the baby moving. It felt strange, and she tried to picture what he looked like. Judging by the sensations, he was no bigger than a kitten, and the comparison bothered her—she disliked cats just as much as children.
As if the heavens had heard her thoughts, the very next day that brazen clinger showed up. Anya was slogging down the corridor of the dorm after her shift and nearly stepped on a dark bundle. A pitiful squeak sounded; she saw a small gray tabby kitten that first skittered away from her heavy boot and hissed, then immediately started rubbing against her.
“Brought in by bad luck, huh?” She looked around, hoping to spot a half‑open door he might have slipped out of, but the hall was dark and silent. “Well, whose are you?”
The kitten mewed plaintively. Anya shoved him aside and went to her room. He trotted after her.
“Hey, get lost!” she barked.
She pushed him away, closed the door, leaned wearily against the frame, and pulled off her boots. Her feet had begun to swell. She set the kettle to boil for her usual instant noodles. She was ravenous, but too tired to cook. She sliced a hunk of sausage, laid it on bread, and chewed the dry sandwich while waiting for the water to boil. Ever since she’d gotten this job there was always food, and Anya still couldn’t get used to that after her hungry childhood.
She never really understood why she did what she did next—probably those hormones everyone talked about. Sighing, she tore off a small piece of sausage, opened the door, and found the kitten sitting there, lifting his little face, looking at her hopefully.
“Just so you know, this is a one‑time thing,” she grumbled, handing him the sausage. “Go find your owners.”
The kitten purred gratefully and began to eat. Anya sighed and shut the door.
In the morning the kitten was in the exact same spot, curled up asleep. When Anya woke him he wailed at the top of his lungs. Someone had opened a window during the night—probably to smoke—and left it open, letting the frosty air chill the corridor so much that Anya felt the cold floor as if she, not the kitten, had lain on it all night. In truth they were just childhood memories she kept trying to chase away.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” she muttered, then opened her door and let him in. “Fine, sit in there.”
She took the last of the milk from the fridge and poured it into the ramen‑cup lid. The kitten lapped it up happily.
From then on he lived with her—she, actually, if Anya had judged the gender right. Anya called the kitten Clinger, because she never left her side, as though afraid Anya might vanish. At first Anya scolded her and wouldn’t let her sleep on the bed; eventually she gave in, and the purring even calmed her.
Of course, people at work noticed—her belly had gotten too big to blame on a heavy supper. The foreman yelled like a madman until Anya calmly said:
“I’m leaving him at the hospital, so don’t worry.”
Silence fell at once. The foreman cleared his throat awkwardly, turned, and walked away. That evening he called her into his office.
“Where’s the baby’s father—took off?” he asked sternly.
Anya squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to remember her stepfather’s black eyes, the broad hand clamped over her mouth… She said nothing, afraid the same desperate words she once hurled at her mother would spill out—and he wouldn’t believe her either.
“I see,” he said at last. “So you didn’t go for an abortion. Why? Think dumping him will be more humane? Didn’t want that sin on your soul?”
Anya didn’t know how to explain the horror the very word “abortion” inspired in her, how to tell the foreman about her nonexistent brothers and sisters, how she’d given them names.
“Well, that’s good of you,” he concluded. “It’s not up to us to decide who lives and who doesn’t. But why leave him in the maternity ward? He’s your own flesh and blood. Forget what I shouted earlier—I was just upset. These things can be worked out. Do you have a sewing machine at home?”
Anya shook her head.
The foreman scratched his chin. “All right, we’ll get you one. Look, you’ll get maternity benefits, I’ll keep your dorm room for you. With a machine, you can earn a bit from home, and nursery school isn’t far off… Really, what you need is a husband, Anyuta. So what if one guy ditched you—find another. You know how men are: they don’t love other people’s kids, they love the kids of the woman they love. So don’t lose heart; you’ll have your happiness too.”
Anya raised her eyes and said coldly, “Thank you, Pavel Andreyevich, but I don’t need a child.”
She stood and left the office. At home, without even taking off her boots, she collapsed on the bed and cried for an hour. Clinger circled around, nudged her with a wet nose, mewed questioningly. At last Anya calmed down, hugged Clinger, and fell asleep.
The foreman still sent her on maternity leave—he said that was the rule.
“You’ll give birth, and if you keep the baby, then come back,” he told her.
“No ‘if,’” Anya shot back defiantly.
Labor began two weeks early. Only when she called the ambulance did Anya realize Clinger would be alone. Then she thought: well, I’ll deliver by morning and be home by noon. She poured some extra milk for her just in case and felt better.
Giving birth hurt. Anya screamed, and with each scream all her pent‑up resentment poured out—about her unborn siblings, the hunger when her mother disappeared for three days and left her with an empty fridge, those words: “He could never do that to you.” How could she be a good mother when she had no idea what that meant?
A boy was born—big, pink, loud. They laid him on her chest, and Anya had to support the warm little body. A strange feeling rose inside her, like an enormous warm wave washing over her. She felt better than she ever had in her life. All the pain and bitterness vanished, as though they’d never existed. Her son lay on her chest, smacking his tiny lips, so wonderful that tears filled her eyes.
“Got a name yet?” the smiling nurse asked. “Fine lad—looks just like you.”
Anya looked at his wrinkled face and answered, “Pavel. I’ll call him Pavel. Tell me, when can I make a phone call? I’ve got a cat at home—I need someone to look after her until we’re discharged…