Friday evening thickened over the city, covering the tired streets with a bluish haze. Their apartment smelled of lemon balm—and of anxiety. Anna sat on the couch, legs tucked under her, arms wrapped around her noticeably rounded belly. The nausea that had been her constant companion for the last three months was especially persistent today.
“Dim, maybe you could stay home tonight?” she asked quietly as her husband came out of the bedroom, buttoning his shirt on the go. “I’m not feeling well.”
Dmitry shot her an irritated look.
“Anya, we agreed. I’ve got the bathhouse with the guys. It’s a tradition—every Friday. You know that.”
There was metal in his voice. To him her request was just another whim disrupting his usual routine. To her, it was a desperate plea for presence. He stepped up to the mirror, straightening his collar.
“Pregnancy isn’t an illness,” he tossed over his shoulder. “I can’t give up everything now. I’ve got my own life too.”
Different worlds. In this short exchange, two universes collided. Her world had shrunk to the size of their apartment and the small life growing inside her, filled with new sensations, fears, and hopes. His world had remained the same: work, friends, the weekly steam with Igor and Petrovich. What had become the center of the universe for her remained, for him, an abstraction—a distant event that would happen someday.
He threw on his jacket; the keys jingled.
“I won’t be long. When I’m back, you’ll go to sleep.”
The front door slammed. The silence—broken only by the ticking clock—crashed down on Anna. She was alone, left with her nausea and the bitter feeling of not being understood.
Memory obligingly served up an image from the past. The gym. Him—strong, confident—explaining how to do a proper deadlift. His smile, the scent of his cologne, the light touch on her back as he corrected her posture. Then there was a quick, joyful wedding, a honeymoon in the mountains with long hikes, laughter to tears, and plans for the future. Their life had been woven from compromises and shared joys. He’d always sensed her mood, anticipated her wishes, been her support.
The news of the pregnancy had at first delighted them both. Dmitry had carried her in his arms, kissed her belly, talked about teaching their son or daughter to ski. But the euphoria faded, and everyday life set in. Her world began to change rapidly, while he seemed to cling with all his might to his old, familiar, comfortable world—one where there was no place for morning sickness, exhaustion, and a woman’s tears.
Anna’s new reality was like a prolonged storm. The toxicosis wore her down, drained her strength. The constant fatigue knocked her off her feet, and the hormonal surges caused sharp mood swings—from inexplicable joy to bitter tears over a cat-food commercial. She quit her job; her social circle narrowed. Her entire world now revolved around the baby to come.
Dmitry’s life, on the contrary, moved along the same grooves. Work, reports, meetings. Evenings at the gym, Fridays at the bathhouse, weekends fishing. He was genuinely happy about becoming a father soon, but he saw it as something that would happen later. Right now, he needed to live, work, earn money. He didn’t understand why his life had to change already.
One afternoon Anna felt especially bad. Her head spun; the weakness was such that she could barely make it to the kitchen. Grabbing her phone, she dialed her husband.
“Dim, hi. Could you come home early? I feel really bad—I can’t even get up.”
On the line came his excited voice:
“Anya, hi! Can you believe it? I got a bonus! Finally! Listen, I can’t—there’s a meeting about the new project, then I’ve got to discuss details with the bosses. Have some tea and lie down. It’ll pass.”
He spoke quickly, animatedly, and she realized her request had sounded like an off-key note in his triumphant day. She hung up without a word.
That evening Dmitry returned well after midnight. The door flew open and in he tumbled—cheerful, drunk—with his best friend Igor behind him. They laughed loudly, discussing something of their own.
“Here we are at the family hearth!” Dmitry proclaimed. “Igoryan, come on in, we’ll knock back some tea!”
They clattered around the kitchen, dropping cups, scraping chairs, not thinking at all about the sick wife in the next room. Anna curled into a ball under the blanket, pressing her hands to her ears and swallowing tears of hurt.
In the morning, when Dmitry—nursing a hangover—came into the kitchen, she couldn’t hold back.
“Couldn’t you have kept it down? Did you even think about me?”
The pent-up pain spilled out with every word. He listened, frowning, then exploded.
“Oh, stop it already! So now I can’t even relax with a friend? I work, I earn money for us, for the baby! I’m not going to cancel my whole life because of a child who isn’t even here yet!”
The last sentence hit her like a slap, knocking the air from her lungs. A child who “isn’t even here yet.” To him, their baby—already kicking, living, breathing with her—was just an abstraction. The chasm between them in that moment seemed bottomless.
The next day Anna met her best friend Svetlana at a little café downtown. Svetlana immediately noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the dimmed gaze.
“Anka, what’s wrong? You look like a ghost.”
Anna broke. She told her everything: the bathhouse, the drunken night, Dmitry’s awful words.
“You see, he’s kind of happy about the baby,” she said, stirring her cooled cappuccino with a spoon. “But he doesn’t hear me at all. Any request is a whim. Any complaint is whining. It’s like he doesn’t understand what’s happening to me.”
Svetlana listened closely, her face growing more serious.
“Oh, Anya… men are often like that,” she said sympathetically, covering her friend’s hand with her own. “They don’t realize that support is needed not later, when the baby is born, but right now. For them it’s all theory; for us it’s reality every second. Just don’t hold it in—talk to him.”
But talking was getting harder. A few days later they went to dinner at Anna’s parents’. The atmosphere at the table was warm and familial. Wanting, apparently, to entertain his in-laws, Dmitry decided to show off his wit.
“Our Anya right now is a treasure trove of funny stories!” he began with a broad smile. “It’s the hormones! One minute she’s crying, the next she’s laughing.”
Anna tensed. She knew that tone—condescending, cheerful, turning her experiences into a joke.
“The other night, imagine this—she wakes me at three a.m.,” Dmitry went on, hitting his stride. “‘I want,’ she says, ‘watermelon with ketchup!’ I nearly fell out of bed. And yesterday she watched some love series and sobbed like she’d been dumped. I tell her, ‘Anya, it’s a movie!’ And she goes, ‘You wouldn’t understand!’”
He painted her condition in colorful detail, making her difficulties, her pain and fears into something silly and ridiculous. Her parents smiled politely, not knowing how to react. Her father cleared his throat, trying to change the subject, but Dmitry had already caught the wave. He felt like the life of the party.
Anna sat pressed into her chair. She felt as if she’d been put on public display—naked and defenseless—while people pointed at her. Every word was a slap. Public humiliation from the person closest to her. She couldn’t bear it any longer.
“Dima, please stop,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.
He turned, surprised. In the heavy silence she rose from the table and went out onto the balcony to gulp some cold autumn air and keep from bursting into tears right there.
Dmitry came out a couple of minutes later. Genuine bewilderment swirled in his eyes.
“Why are you offended? I was just joking, keeping the conversation going. What did I say that was so bad?”
Anna looked out at the city lights, feeling the ice settle inside her.
“You weren’t joking, Dima. You turned my daily suffering into a punchline. What is torment for me is comic material for you.”
He waved it off, annoyed.
“Oh, come on, don’t take everything so close to heart. All pregnant women have quirks. It’s normal.”
In that moment she understood the main thing. He didn’t see or hear her. He didn’t see the real her—vulnerable, frightened. He saw only a set of symptoms from a brochure called “What to Know About Pregnancy.” And that set seemed funny to him. The realization was cold and final.
That evening, back home, she made one last attempt.
“Dima, I have my second ultrasound tomorrow at ten in the morning. Will you come with me? I really want you to see it too.”
He looked away.
“Anya, I can’t. It’s Igor’s birthday—we agreed to hit the bathhouse and celebrate. I can’t let him down.”
It was a blow to the gut. The bathhouse. Again the bathhouse. It turned out to be more important than the chance to see their child on the screen for the first time.
“So your friend’s birthday is more important?” her voice trembled.
“What does that have to do with it!” he began to wind up. “You can do the ultrasound another time, but a birthday is once a year! You’re starting to manipulate and play the sympathy card again! Selfish!”
His words cut deep. She looked at him long and hard.
“And my hurt doesn’t concern you?”
For some reason, that quiet question pushed him over the edge.
“That’s it, enough! I can’t take this circus anymore!”
He grabbed a pillow from their bed and a throw from the armchair and, without looking at her, left the bedroom. A minute later she heard the creak of the fold-out couch in the living room. The emotional rupture became physical. Anna was left alone in their big marital bed, which suddenly felt cold and empty. The point of no return had been crossed.
The morning was filled with thick, ringing silence. They got ready for work without speaking, avoiding each other’s eyes. Still angry from the argument, Dmitry downed his coffee, tossed a curt “bye,” and left. Anna was left alone with her anxiety, now laced with hurt and loneliness.
At the hospital she was met by the doctor, Irina Pavlovna, an older woman with kind but strict eyes. Anna lay down on the exam table, and the cold gel on her belly made her flinch. The doctor moved the probe for a long time, frowning and peering at the monitor.
“Now… this I don’t like,” she muttered under her breath.
Anna’s heart sank.
“Is something wrong, doctor?”
“Your uterine tone is high, dear. Very high. And the placenta’s readings are poor. This is a threat.”
The word “threat” sounded like a sentence. Irina Pavlovna took off her gloves and looked at Anna over her glasses.
“You need to be admitted for preservation treatment. Right now. No ‘home for things.’ Let me write the order—straight to the ward.”
Anna was in shock. Her legs went rubbery, a roar in her ears. Hospitalization. The ward. She obediently followed the doctor down the echoing corridors, answering questions mechanically. The first thing she did once she was settled in was take out her phone. She needed to call Dmitry. Tell him. Ask him to bring things.
She dialed his number. Long rings gave way to a recorded voice: “The subscriber is unavailable or out of network coverage.” She dialed again. And again. The same result. And then it hit her. The bathhouse. He was at Igor’s birthday. And he had turned off his phone. He had deliberately cut himself off so no one would disturb his rest and fun. So she wouldn’t disturb him.
The bitterness of that realization was almost physical. At the scariest moment—when the ground was dropping out from under her—the person closest to her was out of reach. By choice.
She sat down on the hard hospital bed. There were three other beds in the room, but for now they were empty. Anna was alone, in street clothes, without indoor shoes, without a toothbrush, without anything. And the feeling of fear and absolute, all-consuming loneliness washed over her completely. She sat staring at a single point as silent tears ran down her cheeks.
An hour later her roommates began to return. The first to enter was Katya—a round-faced, cheerful woman of about thirty with merry sparks in her eyes. After her came the taciturn Lena and stern-looking Olga.
“Oh, a newbie! Hi, I’m Katya,” the chatterbox introduced herself kindly. “Why are you still in street clothes? Haven’t they brought your things yet?”
Anna forced a smile.
“My husband… is busy. He’ll bring them later, probably.”
She didn’t believe her own words. Katya and Olga exchanged a glance with Lena. Their looks said everything: sympathy, understanding, and female solidarity. They had seen such stories more than once. But they tactfully kept quiet and didn’t pry.
An hour passed, then another. Dmitry’s phone was still off. Shock began to give way to despair. Anna realized she couldn’t wait any longer. With trembling fingers she dialed Svetlana.
“Svet…,” her voice broke, and she burst into tears right into the receiver, unable to hold back any longer. Between sobs she haltingly told her about the hospital, the diagnosis, and her husband’s switched-off phone.
“Okay, breathe,” came Svetlana’s firm, steady voice. “What’s the hospital address? Ward number? I’m leaving work and coming straight to you. What should I bring?”
Anna recited the address and a short list of essentials. Svetlana arrived an hour and a half later. She rushed into the room with two huge bags, out of breath but determined. The bags had everything: a nightgown, robe, slippers, towel, toiletry bag, the book Anna had just started. And on top, like a cherry on a cake, lay a small plush bunny.
“This is for morale,” Svetlana smiled. “A battle buddy.”
Seeing the bunny, Anna broke down again and sobbed—but now they were tears of gratitude. Svetlana hugged her silently, tightly, letting her cry it all out. She stroked her hair and whispered something soothing, like when they were kids.
In that moment, in her friend’s arms, Anna realized with piercing clarity a terrible thing. At the most critical, most frightening moment of her life—when the most precious thing was at risk—it was her friend who supported her. Not her husband. Not the person who had vowed to be there “for better or worse.” He was at the bathhouse, deliberately shutting himself off from any possibility of her pain. From her.
That evening, when the roommates had fallen asleep, Anna lay in the quiet, staring at the ceiling. She stroked the plush bunny and thought. A bitter thought—cold and sharp as an ice shard—formed in her mind: on this path, she was alone. Her pregnancy, her fears, her child—this was her territory alone. And she could count only on herself.
Dmitry got home late that night. Cheerful, relaxed after the steam, he opened the door, expecting the usual scene: the bedroom light on, Anna reading in bed. But the apartment greeted him with hollow, dark silence. He checked the bedroom—empty. The kitchen—empty. Mild confusion turned to alarm. He pulled out his phone, which he’d only turned on in the taxi. The screen flashed missed calls and a voice message.
He hit play. Distorted by static but so familiar and desperate, Anna’s voice told him about the hospital. Every word lashed him like a whip: “threat… admission… things… subscriber unavailable…” In horror he listened to her breaking voice, and the euphoria of the sauna vanished at once, leaving a sticky, cold fear.
Early in the morning he was already at the hospital. Finding the right ward, he peeked in. Anna sat on the bed, looking out the window. She was pale, exhausted, with huge dark circles under her eyes. The sight broke his heart.
“Anya…” he called softly.
She slowly turned her head. There was neither anger nor reproach in her gaze—only immeasurable fatigue.
“Hi.”
“I… I brought your things. I put together everything you asked.”
“Thank you, no need. Svetlana brought everything yesterday.”
Those simple words sounded louder than any slap. His help was no longer needed. His place had been taken.
They went down to the hospital courtyard. The autumn sun barely pierced the clouds. He started talking in a jumble, confused and clumsy, trying to apologize.
“Anya, forgive me. I… I’m such an idiot. I didn’t think…”
She stopped him with a gesture.
“Dima, I’m not asking you to sit by my bed around the clock. I’m asking for something else. Reliability. I just need to know that if something happens to me or the baby, I can reach you. That you’ll be there.”
And then, for the first time, she told him plainly about her main fear that had been living deep inside her all along.
“I’m scared, Dima. I’m terrified that I’ll feel bad, I’ll be alone, and something will happen to him. And I won’t be able to do anything. Your phone being off yesterday—that was my worst nightmare come true.”
Only now, looking into her tear-filled eyes, did he truly understand. Not with his mind, but with his heart. He understood the full scope of her loneliness and his own selfishness. He stepped toward her, wrapped his arms around her thin shoulders, and held her close.
“Forgive me. Do you hear? Forgive me. You will never be alone again. I swear.”
And he kept his word. All week while Anna was in the hospital, he proved it with deeds. He came twice a day—before work in the morning and after in the evening. He brought her favorite fruit, sat beside her, held her hand, and simply stayed silent or read to her.
Their life changed. Dmitry didn’t give up his hobbies, but now the scales of his priorities tilted the right way. On Fridays he could still go to the bathhouse, but his phone was always on, and he came back early. His support shifted from the abstract “I work for you” to real, tangible care. The chasm between their worlds began to slowly close, and on the ruins of the old relationship a new balance was born—fragile, but real.