White hospital tiles floated before Viktoria’s eyes. Consciousness returned slowly, as though making its way through a thick fog. The beeping of the monitors, the sharp scent of disinfectant, the cold touch of a starched sheet—she realized she was in a hospital. Her eyelids felt unbearably heavy, and Vika decided not to open her eyes right away, giving herself time to understand what was happening.
Voices were speaking in the ward. One belonged to her husband, Oleg; the other to an unfamiliar woman, speaking in a professionally sympathetic tone.
“The patient should regain consciousness within a few hours,” said the calm voice of the doctor. “Her vital signs are stable, but the body needs time. Three days in a coma is a serious ordeal.”
Coma? Three days? The last thing Vika remembered was hurrying home through the evening city, eager to surprise Oleg with her news… and then—a blackout.
“Doctor, why is she still unconscious?” Oleg’s voice was tense. “You said the surgery was successful…”
“Every body recovers at its own pace. You must be patient.”
Footsteps approached the bed. Vika felt a strange awkwardness lying there with her eyes closed while they decided her fate.
“I still believe she shouldn’t know all the details,” Oleg lowered his voice. “It’s enough to tell her about the accident; the rest… would be too much for her.”
“Patients have the right to the truth,” the doctor objected. “Withholding information often does more harm than good.”
“But that truth will destroy her.”
What could be so terrible? Vika wanted to bolt upright and shout that she could hear everything, but an inner voice whispered, “Wait.”
“Oleg Yurievich, I understand your concerns. But it’s impossible to hide this.”
“Yes—about the accident. But not about what happened to Maxim…” Her husband’s voice trembled. “How do I tell her about Maxim?”
“You can’t hide the truth forever,” the doctor insisted. “What happened in that car…”
“Doctor Solovyova, please. Let’s deal with one thing at a time. First, we need her to wake up.”
The doctor’s footsteps faded toward the door.
“I’ll return in an hour for a check-up. The call button is by your side.”
The door closed. Vika heard Oleg slump heavily into a chair. She could almost feel his gaze on her. Then his phone buzzed, and he spoke—apparently to his sister.
“Yes, Anya, no change… No, the doctor said she should regain consciousness today. Don’t come yet; I’ll handle it…”
Pause.
“I’m thinking about it all the time too, but now is not the time for dwelling. If only I hadn’t asked Maxim to give her a ride… How was I to know?”
It became ever harder for Vika to remain calm. Accident? Was she in the car with Maxim?
“…Yes, the funeral is the day after tomorrow. But how do I tell her that Maxim died saving her? That the truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into them at the intersection… That he shielded her with his own body…”
Funeral. Maxim was dead. It was hard to breathe, but she kept pretending to sleep, holding back her sobs.
“No idea, Anya… The doctors say the baby is fine, miraculously unharmed. But how do I break the news that Maxim’s mother wants to meet? That his fiancée has been calling me every day?”
A tear slipped down her cheek. A fiancée? Maxim had a fiancée?
“I don’t know if I should tell her now that Maxim knew about the baby… That she confessed to him in the car…”
Silence reigned in the ward, broken only by the monotonous beeping of the machines. Then Oleg spoke again, even more quietly:
“I wish I’d never heard that dashcam recording… His last words before impact: ‘Don’t tell Oleg that the baby is yours…’”
Vika felt the walls closing in around her. Memories surged in a wave—that night half a year ago when Oleg was out of town, her candid talk with Maxim, the wine, the passion… And the following months of torturous doubt when she found out she was pregnant. Deep down, she had always known the truth.
“I’m sorry, Anya… I shouldn’t be talking about this,” Oleg’s voice was muffled. “I love her, no matter what. And I’ll stay by her side, no matter what happens. I have to go now; the doctor is coming back.”
Footsteps in the corridor. Vika realized the moment of choice had come: to keep pretending or to face the truth. The truth that Maxim had died saving her and their child. That her husband knew of her betrayal but stayed with her. That ahead lay meetings with the mother of the deceased and his fiancée.
Oleg suddenly grasped her hand, and the gesture felt decisive. He was here with her despite everything. Unlike Maxim, he had not died for her.
Vika slowly opened her eyes.
“Oleg…” Her voice came as a hoarse whisper.
“Vika!” Relief and anxiety mingled in his eyes. “You’re back! I’ll call the doctor right away…”
“Wait…”
Her fingers clenched his hand tighter. His face froze, as though carved in stone.
“What exactly did you hear?” His voice was soft, almost inaudible.
“Everything.” Vika swallowed the lump in her throat. “About the accident. About Maxim. About…the baby.”
Oleg sank onto the chair without letting go of her hand. Their eyes met, and in his there was no hatred—only deep, hard-won pain.
“I didn’t want you to learn this way…”
“I know.”
A dense, impenetrable silence settled between them.
“You have every right to hate me,” Vika whispered.
“I tried,” Oleg looked at their entwined hands. “All these three days. I couldn’t do it.”
Tears gleamed in his eyes—Vika had never seen him cry.
“And what now?” Her voice trembled.
“Now we’ll go through this together,” Oleg raised his gaze. “Day by day. There’s no other way.”
He gently embraced her, careful not to disturb the IV lines. There was more forgiveness in that hug than in a thousand words.
“I’m afraid to face his mother…” Vika rested her forehead against his shoulder.
“We’ll go to her together. When you’re ready.” He stroked her back. “And to Ksenia too.”
“His fiancée?”
“Yes. She… is a good person. She’ll understand.”
Vika closed her eyes, letting the tears flow. Reality was worse than any nightmare, but she was alive. Her child—alive. And Oleg… Oleg had stayed with her.
“I’m sorry…” she managed.
“I know,” he answered simply.
Outside, dawn was breaking. A new day. The day they would live with this pain, with this truth.
Vika squeezed his hand harder.
“We’ll make it.”
The door opened, and Dr. Solovyova appeared in the doorway.
“Oh! The patient is finally with us!” she said cheerfully, then immediately noticed the tension. “Am I intruding?”
“No,” Vika wiped her tears. “We’re ready to move forward. Step by step.”
Oleg nodded silently, still holding her hand.
…
A week later, Vika stood by the hospital window, watching autumn wind chase yellow leaves across the courtyard. Tomorrow—discharge. Returning to a world without sterile walls and constant monitoring.
A knock sounded at the door.
“May I come in?” Oleg froze in the doorway, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums and a small bag. “I brought your things.”
“Come in.” She managed a weak smile. “The doctor was here. She says everything is fine.”
Oleg placed the flowers in a vase (he had brought them every day, and the nurses always filled it with water).
“She called me,” he said as he pulled her home clothes from the bag. “She reminded me that you need rest, no excitement and…”
“And no talk about Maxim?” Vika finished for him.
Oleg paused, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Not forbidden. Just caution. For your sake. For the baby’s.”
“Baby.” The word still hung between them unspoken.
“Alla Petrovna is coming tomorrow,” Oleg said unexpectedly.
Vika turned pale.
“His… mother? You invited her?”
“She asked to come. I couldn’t refuse.”
Silence. Heavy, thick.
“I’ll be by your side,” he added. “All the time.”
“And Ksenia? Does she know?”
“Yes. Alla Petrovna told her.”
“And what did she…?”
“She stopped calling.”
Vika covered her face with her hands.
“I’ve destroyed everything…”
Oleg embraced her, pressing her close.
“Life goes on, Vika. For all of us.”
…
Home greeted them with silence. Everything was in its place— the same photos, the same knickknacks. But the world had changed.
“I’ll make tea,” said Oleg, seating Vika on the sofa. “Want a snack?”
“No, thanks.” She looked around. “It’s strange… as if I’ve returned to another life.”
A knock at the door made both of them start.
“That’s her,” Vika whispered, her fingers growing cold.
Oleg nodded and went to open.
Alla Petrovna was a short, gray-haired woman with a straight back. But what struck Vika most were her eyes—exactly like Maxim’s, brown with golden flecks.
“Hello, Viktoria,” she said, pausing at the living room entrance. “You can just call me Alla.”
“Hello… Alla.” Vika tried to stand, but the woman stopped her with a gesture.
“Don’t rise; you mustn’t exert yourself. I’ll be brief.”
Oleg brought in the tea, but nobody touched the cups. A heavy silence hung in the air.
“I’m not here for excuses,” Alla Petrovna finally said. “Nor to accuse you.”
“Then why?” Vika asked, barely audible.
The woman took a small box from her bag and set it on the table.
“His crucifix. He never took it off. I want… for him to pass it on to the child.”
Vika shifted her gaze from the box to Alla Petrovna.
“Are you… sure?”
“Maxim wanted it,” the woman replied simply. “He called me an hour before… He said life had given him a surprise and he had to make a choice.”
Vika closed her eyes, feeling her throat tighten.
“Forgive me…”
“For what?” Alla Petrovna asked calmly. “For my son loving you? Or for him choosing to save you and the baby? That was his choice, Vika.”
Oleg, who had been silent until now, spoke unexpectedly:
“Maxim was better than both of us.”
“Yes,” the woman nodded. “And part of him will live on in this child. I want to be part of his life, if you allow me.”
Vika looked at Oleg—and saw understanding in his eyes. She turned back to Alla Petrovna.
“Of course. You’ll be his grandmother.”
A faint, sad but warm smile appeared on the woman’s face.
“Thank you. This means more to me than you can imagine.”
When their guest left—promising to visit again in a week—Vika collapsed onto the sofa, utterly exhausted.
“How are you?” Oleg asked softly as he sat beside her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Relief, guilt, gratitude—all at once.”
“A remarkable woman.”
“And you—a remarkable person,” Vika squeezed his hand. “Few could…”
“I’m no saint, Vika,” he interrupted. “Just… life is too short to spend hating. Maxim understood that in his final moments. It took me three days in that hospital corridor to reach the same conclusion.”
A month later, Vika sat in a psychologist’s office—Oleg had insisted on therapy for both of them, and now she was grateful for it.
“How was the week?” asked Marina Sergeevna, a woman with an attentive gaze.
“Better,” Vika replied. “Alla Petrovna and I went for an ultrasound. We’re having a boy.”
“And how do you feel?”
Vika thought for a moment.
“Mixed. When the doctor said the gender, Alla Petrovna cried. Then she said Maxim was very calm as a child.”
“And Oleg?”
“He… continues to surprise me,” a gentle smile touched Vika’s lips. “Yesterday he brought catalogs for children’s furniture. Said it’s time to prepare the nursery.”
“That’s a good sign,” the psychologist nodded. “Have you seen…?”
“Ksenia?” Vika shook her head. “No. She left. Alla Petrovna says she needs time. A lot of time.”
“And you? What do you need, Vika?”
The question hung in the air. Vika looked out at the gloomy November sky.
“To learn to live with it. To remember who gave us this chance.”
After the session, Vika stepped outside and saw Oleg waiting in the car.
“How was it?” he asked as she buckled her seatbelt—now she always did it automatically.
“Good,” she said. “Shall we go home?”
“Any other plans?” he smiled.
Vika looked at her husband—tired, thinner, but with those same kind eyes.
“Let’s stop by the cemetery,” she said quietly. “I’ve wanted to, but was afraid to suggest it.”
Oleg nodded and started the engine.
The cemetery was quiet. Fresh flowers covered Maxim’s grave—Alla Petrovna had come often.
Vika placed the chrysanthemums she’d brought and stood silently, her hand on her belly. Then she turned to Oleg.
“I want to name him Maxim,” she said, looking into her husband’s eyes. “But only if you agree.”
Oleg looked from the headstone to her belly, and finally into her eyes.
“Maxim Olegovich,” he said. “A good name.”
Vika pressed against her husband, and they stood embraced beneath the first falling snowflakes—the beginning of their new life, where the past was forgiven and the future, despite everything, offered hope.
“Thank you,” Vika whispered, and in that one word lay her gratitude both to the one who stayed with her and to the one who would forever remain in her heart.