— Doctor, please be straight with me! — Irina’s voice trembled, and her fingers gripped the edge of the desk so tightly her knuckles turned white. — I can’t wait any longer!
The man behind the desk slowly lifted his head. The desk-lamp’s light flashed across his glasses, masking his eyes. He put down his pen and took a deep breath.
— Fourteen weeks pregnant, — he said calmly, as if announcing tomorrow’s weather.
Irina froze. The air seemed to rush from her lungs. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
— How… — she finally whispered, a lump rising in her throat. — That’s impossible…
— Quite possible, — the doctor covered the file with his hand, studying her. — You truly had no idea?
Irina Sokolova—a slender forty-five-year-old with a neat chestnut bob and tired yet still vivid green eyes—had never imagined she would find herself in a gynecologist’s office at the “Health+” clinic.
Hospitals repelled her: the sting of antiseptic, the cold metal of a stethoscope, doctors’ blinding white coats—all reminders of the motherhood she thought forever out of reach. Yet the GP on Yablonevaya Street had insisted:
“An exam is essential, Irina Viktorovna. At your age you can’t neglect your health.”
And so here she was, in a stuffy room lined with women’s-health posters, where every rustle of paper sounded like a verdict.
— But… how? — Irina pressed her temples, hunting for words. — My husband and I… we—
The doctor leaned forward, folding his hands.
— It happens. Congratulations. — A barely perceptible smile flickered in his voice.
Irina closed her eyes. One thought whipped through her mind: I’m forty-five. Almost a grandmother. And now… Tears slid down her cheeks.
— What choice?! — She shot to her feet, squeezing her bag so hard the strap cut her palm. Her voice shook, not with fear but with anger. — Are you suggesting I… get rid of it?
The doctor recoiled slightly.
— I’m obliged to outline all options, — he muttered, riffling her chart. — Medical indications, age-related risks—
— My child is not a “medical indication”! — Irina yanked open the cupboard for her coat. — I’ll find another doctor—one who doesn’t see this as a mistake.
His brows climbed, but he merely handed her a lab sheet.
— As you wish. At least take prenatal vitamins—
— Thank you. — She flung the sheet into her bag without looking. — Twenty-five years of waiting will do instead of your pills.
The door slammed so hard the nurses in the corridor jumped.
Her phone died just as she dialed her husband. “Typical,” she scoffed at the black screen.
Silver anniversary in a month… and now this. How do I tell him?
She closed her eyes, recalling endless attempts: hospitals, the resin-scented Sosnovy Bor sanatorium, even that strange healer on Medvezhegorsk’s outskirts who’d muttered, chewing roots, “A child will come when you stop waiting.” She and Sergei had laughed—yet now…
— Lord… — Irina suddenly laughed through tears, pressing her palms to her belly. — We’ve already bought tickets to Greece for the anniversary…
A loudspeaker droned visiting rules; somewhere a tap dripped. And in her chest, alongside long-forgotten fear, something warm and wild began to beat.
Seriozha… he’ll go mad with joy. She smoothed her coat and strode for the exit.
Charge the phone. Buy a test. Ten tests. And…
Her thoughts tangled, but one shone crystal-clear: This is a miracle.
Let the doctors’ forecasts stay where they belong.
Crowded into a stuffy bus, Irina felt nothing could dampen her elation. One phrase spun and spun: “Sergei… he’ll be so happy!”
Ten years ago they’d stopped hoping, after clinics and even that seeress Uncle Petya suggested. “If God didn’t give, we don’t need,” Sergei had said, and Irina had nodded, hiding tears.
Now everything had changed. She laid a palm on her still-flat belly and smiled. He would rejoice—she knew it. Only weeks earlier Sergei had sat in the kitchen, envy in his voice:
— Imagine—our neighbor just had his fourth son. The eldest is twenty-eight!
— Isn’t that late? — Irina had asked, watching rare dreaminess light his face.
— If I became a father now… I’d move mountains.
And now—Surprise! Their 25-year anniversary was near: restaurant booked, cake ordered… The cake!
— Teddy bears instead of roses, — she whispered, picturing Sergei’s puzzled face when the cake arrived. She grabbed her phone and dialed the confectioner.
— Hi, it’s Irina—the three-tier cake? Yes. I need some changes…
Her voice quivered. She saw everything: the party, little bears and bunnies on frosting, Sergei’s confusion, her smile, her confession…
Dreams are fragile.
In the days before the celebration Irina floated in a sweet haze, missing how Sergei grew distant, stayed late, kept his phone face-down.
— Something wrong? You’ve been different, — she asked.
— Just tired, — he muttered.
— See a doctor? — She touched his shoulder.
— I’m fine. Shower time.
She thought he worried for her. Morning sickness even made her smile.
Soon he’ll know. Soon everything will change, she mused, unaware fate had another twist.
The eve of the party: Irina admired her new dress in the mirror. Had so many years passed? The door opened; Sergei entered with white chrysanthemums.
— These flowers again… — she whispered, but smiled.
— Do you like them? — His eyes still held the warmth of thirty years before.
— Just like then… — Memories: the schoolyard, laughter, Sergei climbing her window, the scrawled note “You’re the most beautiful in the world!”
Teasing, fistfights, declarations: “You’re only two years older—and I’ll love you always!” He had won her.
Yet now that same Sergei’s gaze turned strange and cold.
— Ira, we’ll have to cancel the celebration. Can you call the restaurant?
— Why? What happened?
— We’ve lived many years and I thought I was happy. But two months ago I met another woman and… fell in love.
Grandma was right—my brides were still in the sandbox while I courted you. You were older then; now you’re older still. I’ve met someone young and beautiful. — He rubbed his head. — And Dasha… she’s pregnant. I can finally be a father. That’s the real reason. I’m grateful for everything, but our paths part here. Forgive me.
Irina’s world ripped open.
— Leave, — she whispered, clutching her belly. — Go—I’ll pack your things.
He left without a backward glance. Irina dialed an ambulance.
How could someone betray so easily? Share joys, sorrows, deepest secrets—and then walk away?
Perhaps nothing is truly eternal—not even love. Yet for all those years she had been genuinely happy; husbands like hers existed only in dreams. Her happiness, it seemed, had been allotted a term.
And she resolved not to blame her former husband. Former… How that word cut.
Let him find joy elsewhere—the heart will not obey commands. Irina would find hers in the child God had sent, as if for consolation.
But the betrayal still burned her soul.
The doctors did everything they could to save the pregnancy. They succeeded, but Ira had to stay in the hospital until the baby was born. She didn’t argue. She told her friends she was going on a trip—she didn’t want anyone to know about her late pregnancy. She decided to share the good news only after her baby was born.
Only her mother, who had long dreamed of grandchildren, came to visit her. She supported her daughter in everything, doting on her: bringing homemade food, fruits, and walking with her in the hospital courtyard. She believed that Ira would still find happiness.
Sergey called a couple of times. He asked her not to hold a grudge, begged to meet so he could “explain.” But Ira calmly replied that everything was fine and wished him happiness. After that, the calls stopped. He did send one last message: “You were and will always be the best. I’m sorry it turned out this way.”
And she forgave him. Holding onto resentment would only hurt herself. The heart must stay open; otherwise, there would be no room left for joy.
She often talked to her baby, promising that they would manage. After all, he would have a loving mother and grandmother. It was just a pity that Grandpa didn’t live to see this happiness…
The first months passed quickly, but the last one dragged on endlessly. Finally, the day came when her son was born.
Ira looked at him, unable to believe her eyes: this tiny miracle was her child. Her mother was also overjoyed. Ira paid for a private room—she had enough savings to stay home with her son until he grew a little.
Toward evening, when the baby had fallen into a deep sleep, Ira lay down to rest. But suddenly there was noise in the corridor—voices, the clatter of a stretcher… Then it all went quiet, and she drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, Ira woke up with a strange feeling: she was now a mother. Her son was sleeping beside her. And… he hadn’t cried once all night. She jumped up and rushed to the cradle—the baby was sleeping peacefully. She sighed with relief and went to find a doctor.
“Is everything alright?” she asked the nurse. “He slept so long…”
“Everything’s fine,” the nurse replied sharply. “Feed him and change his diaper. You’ll manage.”
“Did something happen?” Ira didn’t like her tone. Weren’t they supposed to explain things?
“You didn’t hear?” The nurse sighed. “Yesterday, a woman who had just given birth died. They brought her in after an accident—too late. They saved the baby girl, but not the mother. The father died on the scene. Now it’s police, interrogations… We didn’t sleep all night.”
Ira nodded and hurried back to her room.
Her son was sleeping peacefully. She was afraid to even pick him up—he seemed so fragile. But when she brushed his tiny palm with her finger, he stirred and opened his little eyes.
“You’re my precious one,” she whispered, stroking him. “You’re so beautiful… Let’s eat now.”
She gently picked him up, changed him, and began to feed him when the doctor entered the room.
“A rare case,” the doctor said. “At your age, milk usually dries up, but you have plenty. Your baby is lucky. But make sure to express some milk, or it could dry up.”
“Okay,” Ira nodded. But she struggled to do it.
The next day, when she stepped into the corridor, the same nurse called out to her:
“Would you like to help?”
“Help with what?”
“That orphaned baby girl. She has no mother’s milk; they’re feeding her formula, but… you have so much. Maybe you could share?”
Ira froze. Breastfeed someone else’s child?
But how could she refuse?
“Alright,” she agreed softly.
Since she couldn’t express the milk properly, the doctor suggested:
“You could try nursing her directly… if you don’t mind.”
Ira hesitated. Getting attached to another child… But was that really a bad thing?
Soon, they brought her the baby girl. So tiny, so helpless… And somehow, Ira thought the girl looked a little like her own son. Though maybe all babies look alike.
When they took the girl away, a sudden thought crossed Ira’s mind: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful—having a son and a daughter…” But she quickly pushed it away. Just dreams.
Discharge day came. Ira and her son, whom she named Volodya, were healthy and happy. The last time she was handed the baby girl, she couldn’t help but ask:
“What will happen to her?”
“Probably the orphanage,” the nurse sighed.
“Such a pity…” Ira whispered. “I wish I could take her.”
“Sometimes mothers do adopt children like her,” the nurse said thoughtfully.
“You mean… it’s possible?”
“Yes, but the paperwork takes time.”
The next day, Ira asked the doctor:
“Can I adopt the girl?”
“No,” the doctor said. “She has a grandfather. He’s applying for custody.”
“Oh…” Ira lowered her gaze. “At least she has family.”
Returning Home
Ira returned with her son to her childhood home. Her mother had tidied up, prepared a nursery, and invited close friends. How Ira had missed this home… although traces of Sergey still lingered there. Thinking of him made her heart ache.
The guests left. Her mother stayed to help with the baby and lay down to rest…
Suddenly—there was a knock at the door. A sad-looking man stood on the threshold.
“Hello, Irina Yuryevna. My name is Evgeny Igorevich…” he began. “I got your address from the maternity hospital.”
“Come in,” Ira invited him.
He sat down, was silent for a moment, then asked:
“Are you married?”
“Divorced,” she frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“The doctors told me you nursed my granddaughter. I’m infinitely grateful… And I have a request: would you continue?”
“But… how?”
“I offer you and your son a place in my home. I’ve already hired a nanny for my granddaughter; you wouldn’t be burdened—just feed her. My daughter… she passed away. My granddaughter is all I have left. If you wish, the nanny can help with your boy too.”
“No, that’s… impossible.”
“I’m begging you. Or… I could send a car to bring you three times a day.”
“No, I’m sorry…” Ira shook her head.
The man sighed heavily, left his business card, and departed.
Ira stood by the window for a long time, staring at the card.
And the thought echoed in her mind: What if this is fate?
“What nerve!” her mother’s indignant voice rang out. She had overheard everything.
“Mama, I can’t just forget about that little girl…” Ira wiped away a tear, but instead of sadness, a firm determination burned in her eyes. “I was ready to become her mother! Do you understand? To take her so that no one could ever hurt her!”
Maria Petrovna hugged her daughter tightly, her hands trembling slightly.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Otherwise, you’ll lose your milk.” But her voice carried more than just concern—it carried deep worry.
“You need to think only about our boy now.”
“Mama…” Ira suddenly straightened, as if struck by an idea. “What if I agree?” She grasped her mother’s hands, her eyes blazing. “Just for a few months! But only if you’re with us. I can’t do it alone.”
“Oh, when will you finally grow up?” Maria rolled her eyes, but worry still shone in her gaze. “You’re still a child yourself, Ira. I don’t even know what to say…”
“Mama, I feel it—it’s fate!” Ira pressed a hand to her chest to calm her racing heart. “Something inside me says I must help that little girl. You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”
“Well, where else would I go?” her mother said, raising her hands in surrender.
Ira’s heart pounded as she dialed Evgeny’s number. She clearly stated her conditions, and, to her surprise, he agreed almost immediately. Just two hours later, she was holding little Vika again. And once more, that strange resemblance… to Volodya.
Evgeny’s house was spacious and cozy, not flashy, but warm, as if fate itself had led her there.
One day, while the children slept and her mother had gone out, Ira stumbled across a photo album. Flipping through it, she froze on the last page.
Sergey. Her ex-husband was hugging a dazzlingly beautiful young woman—young enough to be his daughter.
At that moment, Evgeny’s voice startled her.
“I didn’t mean to scare you, Ira,” he said from the doorway, his eyes falling on the photo. “Feeling nostalgic?”
“Who is this?” she asked sharply, pointing at Sergey.
Evgeny’s expression darkened.
“Dasha. My daughter,” he said heavily. “And… Vika’s mother.”
Ira felt the ground slip from under her feet.
“I was against it,” Evgeny said, clenching his fists. “She threatened to cut me off if I didn’t accept him. I was sickened that she chose a man my age—married, too!”
Ira closed her eyes.
“I tried to talk sense into them… but they wouldn’t listen,” his voice trembled. “Later, he divorced and swore he’d cherish her… But then the unthinkable happened.”
“So… Volodya and Vika are brother and sister?” Ira whispered, barely realizing she had said it aloud.
“What?!” Evgeny froze in shock.
And Ira told him everything.
“I… I can’t believe it,” he said, looking at her with admiration. “You… you blessed them?”
“I didn’t know he had died,” Ira said, clenching her fists. “But arguing with fate is pointless. May they rest in peace…”
A Year Later
Ira and Volodya stayed at Evgeny’s house. And then… one morning changed everything.
Evgeny knocked gently on her bedroom door, carrying a basket of snowdrops. He sat on the edge of her bed, nervously fiddling with the stems.
“Ira…” his voice trembled. “The children are growing. Soon they’ll start asking questions…” He took a deep breath. “Maybe it’s time we became a real family?”
She knew this moment would come.
“You’re right,” she smiled through her tears. “We all deserve happiness.”
Evgeny pulled out a ring. The diamond sparkled in the morning light.
“Maybe it’s cliché, but…” he slipped the ring onto her finger. “I want everyone to know—you’re mine.”
“At my age…” she laughed.
“Age is just in your head,” he pulled her into an embrace. “You’re the mother of two wonderful children. That makes you the youngest, the most beautiful, and—”
“And the happiest,” she finished for him.
Their lips met.
And from the next room came the laughter of children.
Happiness comes to those who know how to wait.
To those whose hearts stay open.
To those who are not afraid to love again.