Fourth childbirth. Nastya stood by the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass of the hospital room, and prayed to all the saints she could remember. Let this baby survive. Lord, let him simply be born alive. Let there be a chance—just one single chance—to truly become a mother.
Her previous three pregnancies had ended in tragedy. A chronic genetically inherited disease, like a curse, took the lives of unborn children. Each time it wasn’t just a loss—it was a deep wound that didn’t heal for years. She even managed to baptize the third baby—Ivan. The priest came directly to the intensive care unit where there was no strength left to wait. The baby lived only a few hours but was buried with a cross on his chest. Every Saturday, Nastya would visit his small stone at the cemetery, bring flowers, and talk to him as if he could hear her.
The doctors warned: there was almost no chance. Valery knew this. They discussed everything in detail, read hundreds of medical reports, consulted with the best specialists. But they didn’t give up. They wanted a child at any cost. They wanted to believe a miracle was possible.
And then—the fourth childbirth. Afterward, silence hung in the operating room. No joyful cries of a newborn. Only urgent medical actions: artificial respiration, heart massage, attempts to bring life back to the fragile little body. All in vain. Another loss. Another name that never became part of their life.
Nastya was transferred to the postpartum ward. Around her was the joy of other women. By each bed stood a baby stroller, and in each slept or breathed a little pink bundle. Only near Nastya’s bed—emptiness. She lay turned to the wall so no one could see her tears. So no one would hear her silent sobs.
In the evening, a new mother was brought into the ward—a very young girl, about sixteen. Dirty dreadlocks, a hospital gown too large, in which she looked even more lost. The women around glanced sideways, whispered, judged. But the girl seemed to notice nothing. She lay down on the bed and instantly fell asleep as if she hadn’t truly rested for years.
A nurse brought the baby and placed him in the crib beside her.
“Well, you got lucky,” she patted the baby’s back. “With a mom like that.”
The baby curled up into a tube and yawned. Nastya watched him without looking away. There he stretched, straightened his tiny fingers, yawned again. It’s so simple—just to take and start living. Even if your mom is the last vagabond. Why wasn’t she given the same?
At midnight, the baby cried. His mother was still fast asleep. Nastya got up, approached the crib, and gently took the baby in her arms:
“May I feed him? My milk is coming in strongly.”
“Of course, if the mom doesn’t mind.”
The baby latched onto her breast, sucking eagerly as if he sensed it wouldn’t last. A minute later his mother woke up.
“Oh, it’s still dark. I thought it was already morning. I wanted to leave.”
“Leave? What do you mean?”
“And the baby… what baby? Oh, that one. Why do I need him? I’ll sign a refusal.”
In the morning, the head nurse called Nastya to the office.
“Kostina wrote a refusal. The boy will be sent to an orphanage. But you can arrange adoption here and now. I’m afraid you won’t have another chance to have a healthy child.”
Nastya’s heart froze. This baby, whom she had already fed, who trusted and clung to her, had become dear to her. How would she explain everything to Valery? What would her parents say? What would friends think?
“Can it be made as if he’s mine? Officially registered under my name, as if I gave birth?”
“We have strict reporting. There’s an option: if Kostina signs a contract transferring rights to you. But a notary is needed.”
Nastya rushed back to the ward. Kostina was already preparing to leave.
“Irochka, wait! I want to adopt your child. Wait for the notary.”
“Five hundred rubles—and I’ll stay in this stinky hole for one more day.”
“Okay, just don’t go anywhere!”
An hour later a friend brought money and documents. They signed the contract in the office.
“Nastya, does Valerka agree?” asked the friend.
“I told him our child is in critical condition. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, but the doctor said I won’t give birth to a living child.”
Valery was ecstatic. He asked several times, “Really? Really?” He called all relatives, friends, acquaintances. While Nastya was in the hospital, he celebrated the birth of his son with one group and then another, unable to contain his joy.
When they came to take the baby from the maternity hospital, Nastya’s mother took him in her arms, looked closely at his face.
“Oh, he looks so much like Valerka!”
“Mom, can you tell already?”
“No, don’t say that. Your nose was thin from birth, and his is a little potato-shaped. Exactly like Valery’s.”
“Well, good. Let him look like his father.”
For a long six years, the children’s room remained empty. Now the first baby cries, laughter, and first words filled it. The baby was demanding, especially when it came to food.
“Wait, you impatient one!” Nastya joked while preparing for the next feeding.
Steps were heard in the corridor. Valery asked:
“What will you name him?”
“Kostya. A good name—Konstantin.”
“A royal name,” Nastya said thoughtfully. She had always wanted to give her son that name.
That’s what they named him—Konstantin Valeryevich. Everyone immediately noticed his striking resemblance to his father. When the baby learned to walk, he became a true daddy’s shadow. Wherever Valery was, Kostya was sure to be nearby—on his lap, at his feet, or just hanging in his arms like a little monkey.
Two and a half years later, Nastya became pregnant again. This time, fear was replaced by confidence. Looking at cheerful Kostya and Valery, she felt such calm that the fifth pregnancy went smoothly, without worries. A healthy, living girl was born.
They named the baby Victoria. For Nastya, this name symbolized victory over past failures. Valery said:
“We have King Konstantin, so there will be Queen Victoria.”
Kostya loved his sister from the first day. At first, he thought she was a toy, then realized she was a person and started to take care of her. He would bring a pacifier, rock the cradle, or shout, “Mom, where are you? The baby is crying!”
Mom couldn’t get enough of her grandchildren. She called them “golden” and took endless photos.
One day, Nastya received a call from an unknown number. A man introduced himself as a notary and said he was calling on behalf of Pyotr Alekseevich Kostin. He wanted to discuss inheritance matters.
“What nonsense,” Nastya thought. “What inheritance?” And suddenly it dawned on her: Pyotr Kostin was Irina’s father, the biological mother of Kostya!
Her heart raced. What did they want? Would they tell Valery the truth? Would their family fall apart?
No, that couldn’t be allowed. She had to go to the notary office and ask them to leave the family alone.
Nastya took Kostya to her mother, grabbed Vika, and went to the given address. In the office, she was met by a short, stocky man about fifty with a surprisingly familiar face.
“My God, is there really no one to leave the child with? Sorry for the trouble.”
“No problem. We’ll take a walk too. Why was I needed?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to complicate your life. Let me introduce myself—Kostin Pyotr Alekseevich.”
“Danilova Anastasia Olegovna. Why did you think we need help?”
“I’ll tell you now. You became the mother of my grandson. My daughter…” Kostin turned away, wiped a tear. “Ran away from home at fourteen. She would come back periodically from the south where she toured with a rock band or from somewhere else. Useless. A wild, headstrong girl.
Three years ago, she gave birth to a boy from an unknown man and transferred rights to you. A familiar notary kept me informed about your affairs. Then my daughter got addicted to fire shows, pills, and… died of an overdose.”
Pyotr Alekseevich took out a photo. Nastya looked at the girl with a snow-white smile and chestnut hair. She barely recognized the same vagabond with dreadlocks.
“Kostya doesn’t look like her at all.”
Nastya shifted her gaze to Pyotr and involuntarily smiled. The grandfather had the same little potato-shaped nose as the grandson.
“And this girl is my youngest daughter Vika. And the grandson stayed with grandma.”
“Oh, old fool! Of course, the grandson is three years old. Probably already talks?”
“Of course. Very amusingly.”
“Do you have photos?”
Nastya took out her phone and showed pictures.
“Lovely child. Reminds me of someone.”
“You remind me,” Nastya thought with a smirk.
“I won’t keep you long. Older son Vadim is about to marry. There will be a new family member. The lawyer advised writing a will with a fair division of property. The son knows about the grandson and doesn’t mind including him in the will. The only condition is not to force him to meet your family.”
“I wouldn’t want to suddenly gain relatives either.”
“Why?” the man asked disappointedly.
“My husband knows nothing about the adoption. It happened in the maternity hospital after losing the fourth child. And I told all my relatives I gave birth myself.”
“Understood. Give me some time, I’ll find a way out. Neither your husband nor your relatives will suspect anything.”
“Maybe we just won’t register anything? Our family isn’t poor.”
“What nonsense! I just want descendants not to need anything later.”
“Ah, grandpa, the story with your daughter didn’t teach you anything. You create greenhouse conditions, and they run away out of boredom,” Nastya thought but said nothing. She only promised to come to the next meeting with Kostya.
The next meeting was even more surprising. First, Valery received a letter asking him to take a genetic test at a medical center. Nastya was scared: what else had the strange old man thought up?
Everything was revealed at the restaurant meeting. Kostin looked conspiratorially pleased. When the family settled at the table, he took out a letter.
“Hello. I didn’t think you’d remember me. Ten years ago, you definitely wouldn’t have answered, but today I’ll tell you everything. Besides, I’ve been widowed for five years.
When we broke up, I was really pregnant. But I didn’t say anything—it was early, and I hoped to have an abortion. Your Lyuda didn’t let me. I met a very good man, told him everything, he married me despite the past. When the child was born, no one suspected he wasn’t her husband’s. Danilov raised him and brought him up as a real person.”
“Who is this from?” Valery asked stunned.
“From mom.”
“Can’t be! Wasn’t dad my father?”
“Maybe, son,” Kostin said joyfully. “When I saw Valery and the grandson in the photo, I immediately understood—they’re our blood. Then I decided… In my youth, I wasn’t an angel. I suspect I have illegitimate children all over the country. I can’t find them all, but I found the closest girl, Anya.
“Wow,” Nastya thought. “So Kostya Valerkin is a nephew.”
“Please welcome—I’m Valery’s father, Nastya’s father-in-law, and grandfather to wonderful children. How’s that for a twist?”
“Wait,” her husband recovered. “Why suddenly look for your ex-girlfriend?”
“We need to make a will so no one gets offended. Anna is the only ex who lives in our city. I decided it was easier to find her. I was right. Now I definitely won’t offend anyone.”
Nastya looked at the men—grandfather, father, and son. All three had the same little potato-shaped noses. Life knows how to surprise. Who would have thought the adopted baby would turn out to be blood relatives?
Happiness doesn’t always come as expected. Sometimes it appears as a tiny bundle abandoned by a sixteen-year-old vagabond. And it changes life forever.