— I promise, everything will be alright, — Anna whispered, pressing her newborn son to her chest.
The February wind hurled snow against the taxi window. The drive from the maternity hospital seemed endless. Anna caught her reflection in the glass — a gaunt face, sunken eyes. She felt like she had aged over these three days. The baby stirred, and she folded back the edge of the blanket. The tiny face slept peacefully, unaware of what awaited them at home.
— We’re here, — said the taxi driver. — Need help with your things?
— I’ll manage, thanks.
The joy from buying this apartment in the panel building three months ago had evaporated. Now these walls felt foreign to Anna. She climbed to the fourth floor and rang the bell. The door opened to Mikhail — with a detached look in his eyes.
— Hi, — he said, glancing briefly at the bundle. — Come in.
No hugs, no smiles. Not a single question about how she was feeling. Anna stepped inside, feeling the air thicken around her.
The apartment was sterile clean. On the table—an empty bottle of water and untouched tea. Anna went to the bedroom and laid her son in the crib her mother had gifted.
— What shall we name him? — she asked, unbuttoning the baby’s romper.
Mikhail shrugged:
— Choose yourself.
— Maybe Artyom? Like your grandfather?
— Do as you see fit.
Anna forced herself to breathe evenly. Not to cry. Her son needed a calm mother. She changed him and put him to sleep. The house felt strangely numb. By evening, the emptiness inside became unbearable. Mikhail sat with headphones on at the computer. Anna fed the baby, swaddled him, warmed water — all as if in isolation. Attempts to start a conversation bounced off a wall of indifference.
At nine, Mikhail silently reheated a pizza and ate without looking away from the screen. Anna rocked the baby, swallowing tears. By midnight, she gathered courage. Her heart pounded, drowning out all other sounds.
— Misha, we need to talk.
He took off his headphones:
— About what?
— About us. About what’s happening. You haven’t looked at me all day, haven’t held the baby…
— What should be happening? You gave birth. Congratulations.
— Misha, tell me, what’s going on between us? Do you not love me anymore?
The question hung in the air. Mikhail slammed his laptop shut and stood up.
— I never wanted this life, — he said quietly. — I didn’t want a child. You decided everything on your own. I’m not needed here.
He went to the bedroom, packed his things into a sports bag. Anna stood frozen, unable to move.
— I’ll come back for the rest, — he said, fastening his jacket.
— Where are you going?
— Doesn’t matter. You don’t need me.
The door closed. Anna was left alone. Outside, a snowstorm raged. She walked to the crib where her son slept. Tears fell onto the blanket.
— We’ll manage, — she whispered. — I promise.
A month later, Anna stood before her parents’ house in the village. The wooden porch creaked beneath her feet.
— Oh my, you’re so thin, — Larisa Petrovna exclaimed, flapping her hands. — Give me the baby! I’ll bring in the things, your father will.
Artyom, named against all odds, slept in a carrier. Anna handed him to her mother and glanced at the snow-covered yard. The native village now seemed the only salvation.
Her father silently took the suitcases. His hands spoke louder than any words of comfort.
— Thank you, Dad.
— We’ll talk at home, — Nikolai Ivanovich nodded.
The house smelled of fresh bread. Anna’s things were placed in her old room; for Artyom, grandfather built a crib. The evening passed in a flurry of activity. Her mother fussed over the grandchild, her father stoked the stove. Anna sat at the table, mechanically stirring her tea, feeling a strange numbness inside.
— Don’t think about anything now, — her mother said that evening. — Morning is wiser than the evening.
But sleep would not come. Anna lay awake, listening to her son’s breathing. The old house creaked its floorboards. Outside, snow fell, moonlight filtered through the curtains. Morning brought rooster calls and the scent of fresh milk. Life here followed its own course.
— Hold him, — her mother asked. — I’m going to milk the cow.
Anna sat on the porch with Artyom. The air smelled of spring, though it was still far away. The baby opened his eyes — green like hers — and smiled for the first time. Something inside Anna stirred. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Anna immersed herself in village life: morning milking, gardening, cooking.
Between chores, she fed her son, changed his diapers, sang lullabies. At night she dreamed of Mikhail and cried. But at dawn, seeing her son’s smile, the pain receded. By his first birthday, Artyom was trying to walk, holding her fingers. By two, he ran around the yard, scaring the chickens. Grandfather carved him a wooden tractor — the boy’s favorite toy.
On summer evenings, they sat on the veranda. Grandmother read fairy tales, grandfather ate berries, Artyom fell asleep on his mother’s lap. Old songs played on the radio, and her mother sang along, recalling her youth.
— Remember when you climbed the apple tree at five? — she smiled. — Artyom is just the same.
Anna smiled back. Her son grew happy — chasing butterflies, building sandcastles, running barefoot in the grass. His childhood was full of simple joys. When Artyom turned four, he got sick. The fever lasted three days. Anna never left his bedside, applying compresses, giving herbal teas. In delirium, the boy called for his mother, and she held his hand, whispering stories.
On the fourth night, the fever broke. Artyom slept soundly, and Anna stayed by his side. And then she realized — she had made it. Without Mikhail. She was raising her son, fighting for his health, giving him all she could. That night Anna understood she had become stronger than she thought.
At seven, Artyom started school. On a September morning, they walked to the school assembly — he with a bouquet of dahlias from grandmother’s flowerbed, she in a simple jacket but with shining eyes.
The pain was gone, replaced by calm confidence in the future.
The July sun flooded the village yard. Anna hung laundry, watching twelve-year-old Artyom help grandfather fix the roof. The boy had grown tall, with light brown hair and her green eyes. From Mikhail — only a stubborn chin.
— Mom, I’m done! Can I go to the river?
— Go ahead. Be back by lunch, grandmother’s making dumplings.
Artyom dashed off. Anna brushed back a loose strand of hair. Five years at the post office had taught her to value free weekends. In the evening, in the cool air, she sat under the apple tree, checking bills. Life had settled, but the habit of counting every ruble remained.
— Anya! — a neighbor called. — Come in for tea. My son’s visiting from the city.
— Thanks, I’ll stop by later.
— Such a shame what Anna went through with Mikhail… But now look how she’s blossomed! And Artyom’s a golden boy…
The words reached Anna, stirring memories — a slammed door, broken hopes.
By dinner, her son returned — sunburned, freckles on his nose. Everyone sat down at the table. Potatoes with dill, lightly salted cucumbers — simple food tasted better than city delicacies. Anna watched her son. Five years at school, honor student, the family’s pride.
Seeing grandfather teach him crafts, grandmother reading with him, she felt — everything had turned out right.
Twilight fell on the village. Fireflies flickered outside the window. Artyom helped clear the table, telling about the crucian carp he caught. Nikolai Ivanovich ate his favorite berries in the garden. An ordinary summer evening. Then suddenly Artyom froze. His gaze grew thoughtful.
— Mom, I wanted to ask…
— Yes?
— Mom, is it true that my dad left you when I was born?
The question came quietly but cut through the evening like a knife. Larisa Petrovna went out to the yard. It was a mother-son conversation. Anna took a breath. She knew this day would come. For twelve years she had prepared an answer, but all words vanished.
— Let’s go to the porch.
They sat on the steps. The air was filled with cricket sounds and the scent of freshly cut grass.
— Where did you hear that?
— A neighbor said today. I overheard it.
Anna touched his cheek.
— Yes, — she said simply. — Your father left when you were just a few days old.
She told him everything as it was — without anger, without blame.
— He wasn’t ready. He was scared. I don’t blame him now. But it was painful then.
— Did you ever regret it? That I was born?
— Never. Not for a second. You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Artyom was silent. In the dark, Anna couldn’t see his face.
— Then I’m lucky, — he said. — I have you. And grandfather. And grandmother. I don’t need anyone else.
His voice sounded almost grown-up. Anna hugged her son, and he pressed close.
Above them spread a starry sky. Crickets sang their song. Inside the house, grandmother quietly hummed.
— Mom, — said Artyom, — you are the strongest. I want to be like you.
Anna smiled, wiping away a tear. For twelve years she feared this talk. Twelve years she dreaded seeing blame in her son’s eyes.
And now everything was simple.
— You know, I’ve never been as happy as I am now. With you.
And that was pure truth.