The shadow from the tall poplar outside had already split the yard in two when the worst moment in sixteen years of the Beketovs’ life together began. The living room air—stagnant with cigarette smoke and unsaid words—felt thick enough to slice. Artyom Viktorovich, veins ridging the backs of his hands and a commander’s stare turned inward, pressed his temples as if he could squeeze the pain away. Across from him, Lilya sat folded in on herself, worrying the frayed hem of her old knitted cardigan. Her tidy, well-swept world was caving in, and the detonator of this apocalypse sat between them, eyes glued to the floor.
Their daughter. Ariana. Their quiet, withdrawn Ariana who always smelled of baby cream and library pages—now harboring a foreign, anxious, bitter secret.
It had started with a trifle: the school medical checkup. Ariana flatly refused the gynecologist. The homeroom teacher, a fussy, twitchy woman, called Lilya and hinted at “odd and inappropriate behavior.” Alarmed, Lilya tried a gentle talk over tea and raspberry jam. Ariana stared at her cup, fingers blanching around the spoon, and said nothing.
Then she produced it—a neatly folded slip from a private clinic called Eden. Not a certificate, a verdict. Gestational age: ten weeks. The diagnosis read like mockery: “Physiological intrauterine pregnancy.”
Artyom read the paper and, as if moving underwater, sank into the armchair. His pupils snapped to pinpoints.
“Explain,” he said, voice low and grainy, a rusty hinge in the wind. “Who is he?”
Ariana shook her head without lifting her eyes. Her long lashes threw shadows across cheeks that looked almost translucent. She seemed one breath away from evaporating under the weight of the question.
“It was my decision. He has nothing to do with it,” she whispered. There was metal in the whisper—a tempered steel Lilya had never heard before.
“Covering for a scoundrel!” Artyom’s fist hit the armrest; the crystal vase quivered. His hand went for the Belomor. “I’ll— I’ll grind him to powder! He’ll rot in prison! You will tell me his name. Now!”
“Artyom, no! The smoke… it’s harmful!” Lilya snatched the pack without thinking, her voice shaking. Already she was defending— not her daughter, but a grandchild. A descendant. Someone not yet real who had already upended everything.
“And how did you not notice?” He swung that furious, helpless gaze onto his wife. “Right under your nose! You kept saying she’s always home on time, she doesn’t run around!”
“I’m sorry,” Lilya murmured, eyes down. Guilt—corrosive and hot—raced through her. “I… I never would have thought. She’s our little girl…”
“So you won’t say his name?” Artyom leaned in until his shadow swallowed Ariana. “I’ll find out. I’ll find it all out. And he won’t know what hit him. I swear.”
“Dad, don’t,” she said with a calm that sounded almost detached.
“Then he can marry you! Provide for you and your…” He groped for a word. “Brood!”
“Artyom!” Lilya nearly leapt. “She’s our daughter! And that is our grandchild, in case you’ve forgotten!”
“I don’t want to get married,” Ariana said, shaking her head. “Not now.”
“And that’s right, sweetheart,” Lilya rushed in, darting a nervous glance at her husband. “Your father and I will handle everything. We’ll sort it out… He’ll be like a son to us. Or a daughter! You always wanted a little sister, Arisha?”
Artyom stared at Lilya like he’d never seen her before. Disgust twisted his features.
“Have you lost your mind, Lilya? Wake up!”
“Don’t, Mom,” Ariana said, lifting her eyes at last—huge, storm-colored, bottomless. “I can’t lie to him for the rest of my life. I can’t watch him call you Mom and Dad while I’m… the sister.”
Something in that look made Lilya crumple inside. Something beyond repair.
“Ariana, you’re a child yourself!” Lilya cried; tears finally spilled—hot and acrid. “School, university… Your whole life ahead! With a baby, you’ll bury it! Miserable work, constant fatigue, illnesses! And no decent man will marry you!”
“I don’t need one!” Ariana flung toward the window, toward the lowering sun.
“You’ll have the baby at Aunt Sveta’s in Reutov,” Lilya pushed on, blotting her face and forcing herself to steady. “She’ll get you into a good maternity ward. Quiet. Discreet. For now, count on us.”
She threw a defiant look at her husband. He only stared into the choked ashtray.
When Ariana went out for bread, silence detonated. Artyom opened fire.
“You spoiled her! Raised her like some fairytale witcher! That’s what your permissiveness got us!”
“And you?!” Lilya snapped, backing toward the sideboard. “You carried her around like porcelain! ‘Daddy’s princess!’ Don’t you dare hang it all on me! If you were home more, maybe we wouldn’t be here!”
“And why do you even need this… grandchild?” he shouted, beyond brakes now. “Why? You’re forty-two! You’ll never manage! Your back, your health!”
“Thanks for the age reminder!” Lilya flared, the arrow sinking into the sorest place. “Plenty of women my age are just starting to live! Maybe I even hoped… to have one of my own!”
Artyom stopped with his mouth open. The cigarette drooped.
“Really?” he rasped, voice unexpectedly softened, almost tender. “Lilyush… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean the age. It’s just… hard. And your back…”
“Leave me alone,” she turned away—then heard the scratch of a match and exploded again. “And don’t you dare smoke in here! Stairwell. Now!”
“Aye-aye,” he saluted, absurdly. Despite herself, a strangled smile tugged at her mouth. He caught it and exhaled inwardly. She never stayed angry for long. It was her salvation.
The secret didn’t last a day. Ariana’s best friend—freckled, jittery Snezhana—couldn’t hold an atom bomb in her pocket. By evening the whole school, from first-graders to the vice principal, was whispering that “Beketova got knocked up.” They’d snickered at Ariana before for shyness and a bit of baby fat; now the cruelty went total. Fingers pointed, filthy jokes flew, diapers and jars of baby purée appeared in her locker. Worst of all, no one—absolutely no one—could guess who the father was. Ariana didn’t hang with boys. She didn’t go on dates. Her pregnancy looked like an immaculate conception, a taunt hurled at logic.
Grinding his teeth, Artyom greased the right palms to get her switched to home instruction under a neat diagnosis: “severe nervous exhaustion.”
Behind everyone’s backs, he launched his own investigation. He ran through every likely male in a five-block radius—punk neighbors, swaggering upperclassmen, young machinists from the plant. He even tried a private eye in a threadbare trench, mustache like a broom, who named a fee that could have bought a new Moskvich. Artyom spat and tried another tack: a reward—smaller by threefold, still tempting—for anyone who’d name the “bastard.”
Hell broke loose. His phone glowed red. He took time off work just to sit by it.
Bounty hunters descended like crows. They named Sergeys-who-drink, Vityas-the-rockers, the student from next door—none with proof. The calls all sounded the same:
— “Hello, you the one paying?” a teen chirped.
— “Possibly,” Artyom said, drilling the receiver.
— “Half up front.”
— “You get all of it when I know you’re not lying.”
The line would click. Sometimes a “witness” appeared. One swore he saw Ariana kissing a dark-haired guy in a leather jacket in the stairwell. Another swore she met secretly with a married swimming coach.
— “Too bad I didn’t have a camera!” one lamented. “Would’ve snapped a pic!”
— “When was that?” Artyom asked, pencil ready.
— “Two months ago.”
Two months ago, by the Eden paper, Ariana was already pregnant. Artyom hung up and lit another cigarette. The ashtray looked like a tiny cemetery.
Days into this, Irina called.
— “I told you never to call here,” he hissed, palm cupped over the receiver.
— “You’ve forgotten me,” she drawled, spoiled as cream. “No visits, no calls…”
— “Not now,” he said, cold creeping down his back.
— “Right, I heard. You’ll be a grandpa soon… Artyom, I miss you…”
— “Artyom, who is it?” Lilya stood in the doorway, face pale, bruised by sleepless nights.
— “No one,” he said, throat thudding. “What’s wrong?”
— “I asked you not to smoke in here.” She pointed at the overflowing ashtray. “Quit this filth.”
— “Sorry, Lilyush… Nerves.” He crushed the butt.
The phone gave a dying croak—an incoming text. From Irina.
Lilya’s brow climbed.
— “What was that?”
— “Aleksandr Ivanych,” he lied, appalled by his own helplessness. “Inviting me fishing.”
He snuck a look at the screen: So I’m nothing to you, then?
— “You’re getting worse at lying,” Lilya said quietly, and left him in a fog of shame.
“Lilya! Lilyushka!” He hurried after. “I’ve never lied to you! Never!”
— “Haven’t you?” She turned; in her eyes he saw not anger but a depthless fatigue. “My heart’s known for a while.”
— “No! You’re the only woman in my life,” he blurted, taking her hands.
— “Ah, sly fox.” She wagged a finger without heat. “Watch yourself…”
On Monday he left for work early. He had to see Irina, to end it. Climbing to her apartment, he rehearsed the words, sanding off the treachery.
He rang their code: two short, one long. No answer. He was already savoring the relief of walking away when the door swung open. A massive, sleepy lump stood there in baggy boxers and a tank.
— “Whaddya want, old man?” he yawned.
Behind him, Irina’s pale face pinched with fear. Hands clasped as if in prayer.
— “Is Aleksandr Ivanych home?” Artyom asked, finding his feet.
— “Nobody by that name,” the hulk grunted, and slammed the door.
Thank God, Artyom thought, heading downstairs, oddly light. The affair had weighed on him from the first. Now he was free.
On his way home he stopped at the fanciest shop and bought Lilya the French perfume she’d eyed all year. He added a blood-red bouquet and a bottle of champagne.
— “What’s this?” Lilya asked at the door, puzzled. “Are we celebrating?”
— “Felt like making you happy,” he said, kissing her cheek.
— “A celebration?” Ariana echoed from her doorway.
— “For you too, sunshine.” He handed her a big box of Belgian truffles. “Your favorite.”
— “Thanks, Daddy.” A rare smile slipped across her face.
— “What are you doing?” Lilya nudged him with the bouquet. “Chocolate is a strong allergen! She shouldn’t!”
— “I thought… while it’s still early…”
— “Sweetheart, what did the doctor say?” Lilya perked up. “When can I speak to them? We need a plan!”
— “Mom, a parent comes only if they send you for an abortion,” Ariana said quietly.
— “Ptui-ptui-ptui, don’t you dare jinx it!” Lilya spat over her shoulder. “And the chocolates—are they allowed?”
— “They’re allowed,” Ariana nodded.
Then the impossible: Ariana came over and wrapped both parents at once, pressing her face into them. They stood like that—tangled in arms, flowers, and boxes—more a family than they’d been in years. They sat at the kitchen table; a fragile, trembling truce hovered.
— “Your father and I will move into your room,” Lilya said dreamily, pouring tea. “It’s the sunny one. We’ll give you and the baby our bedroom. Your father has… perfumed it up, but they do ozonation now. We’ll do a Euro-renovation!”
— “I’ll handle it,” Artyom cut in. “New wallpaper, stretch ceiling… Honey, you’ll pick the wallpaper—little bears or bunnies?”
— “God, I’m happy,” Lilya clasped her hands. “Last night I dreamed I was rolling a pram… such a baby inside! A little dumpling! By the way, when’s the ultrasound? When do we learn the sex?”
Ariana chewed slowly, eyes on the wall beyond them.
— “I don’t think it’ll be any time soon.”
— “What do you mean?” Lilya bristled. “They can tell by four months!”
— “Mom. Dad.” Ariana lowered her gaze into her cup. Her voice was barely there. “I have to tell you… I’m not pregnant.”
Silence fell—thick, ringing, absolute. Lilya froze with the tray in her hands.
— “Not pregnant?” she breathed, face bleaching. “What happened? Did you…?”
— “There is no baby,” Ariana said without looking up. “There never was. I made it up. The clinic slip—I bought it in the metro. It’s fake.”
Artyom nearly dropped the champagne.
— “What?!” his voice cracked into falsetto.
— “And the doctor who signed it?” Lilya clutched the last straw.
— “There was no doctor. I’m sorry.”
And then it clicked for Lilya—why the girl fought so hard against going to the clinic together, why she ducked talk of tests.
“Why?” Lilya’s voice shook. The child she’d already cradled in her mind—named, rocked—was smoke. “Why would you do this to us?”
— “I wanted you and Dad to be together again,” Ariana said, steadier. “To stop fighting. For Dad… to come home.”
Lilya stared, uncomprehending.
— “But we… we didn’t fight that much,” she said slowly. “I even bought you a book—The Most Beautiful Names. I thought we’d choose together…”
— “I’m sorry,” Ariana whispered, finally meeting their stunned, scraped-out faces. “I didn’t know you needed him that much… If you want, I’ll…”
— “No,” Artyom barked, the word ringing like an order. “Everything in its time. Tomorrow—back to school. I’ll call your homeroom teacher.”
— “But—”
— “No buts.”
Ariana left the kitchen with her head bowed.
Lilya watched her go and said nothing.
— “And I’m a fool,” she murmured at last. “I even noticed she’d lost weight… and she should have been gaining…”
Artyom went to her and tried to hold her; she moved away.
— “Don’t despair. We’ll have grandkids. We will.”
— “What did she mean?” Lilya lifted her gaze. No tears now, only a cold, piercing question. “‘So that Dad would come home’? What am I supposed to know?”
Artyom dropped heavily into a chair. The hour had come.
— “I meant to tell you,” he coughed. “I was afraid you’d never forgive me. One day… our daughter saw me. With another woman. I promised I’d end it. And… I didn’t.”
Lilya stilled, turned to stone.
— “Leave, Artyom,” she said at last, voice strangled and foreign. “I don’t want to see you.”
— “I won’t leave.”
— “Then I’ll go.” She stood, but he stepped in front of her.
— “Did you see what she did? Do you understand why? I can’t leave. Who knows what she’ll try next? It’s over with that woman. For good. For you. For her. Forgive me.”
Lilya left without a word.
He hoped, as always, that she’d thaw quickly. Not this time. For three days she didn’t speak to him. Jokes, gentle jabs—she walked out in silence. On the fourth day, desperate, he told a stupid tailor joke; she smiled faintly. It was enough.
Riding that tiny victory, he arranged a small spectacle. He called the old pals who’d once set the district buzzing with their VIA “Samotsvety,” and coaxed them over.
At precisely nine, the quiet courtyard filled with guitars and Artyom’s cracked but earnest baritone:
“I am here, Inezilia,
I’m here beneath your window.
All Seville is gathered,
In darkness and in slumber…”
Balcony by balcony, heads appeared. Passersby stopped, grinning.
“Filled with all valor,
Wrapped in my cloak…” he sang, voice splitting on the high note into a cough.
One of the musicians slid in smoothly:
“With guitar and sword,
I’m here beneath your window!”
Applause fluttered from the balconies. Lilya did not appear.
— “Inezilia, for God’s sake, come out!” someone slurred from the tipsy crowd. “The man’s trying! Hey, witch!”
Back inside, Artyom sagged. He had done everything he knew. He decided he’d lost. Late that night, when Lilya was already in bed, he stepped into the bedroom. Darkness.
— “Lilya,” he said into it, “I must have hurt you too much. You’re right. You deserve better. Tomorrow I’ll leave.”
The covers rustled.
— “Get in bed, troubadour,” she snickered sleepily.
Lilya’s dream came true. Less than a year later she was rolling an elegant pram through the park. Not with a grandchild—with their second child, late and deliriously longed-for. Everyone was happy. Happiest of all was Ariana, who fell in love on sight with her little sister and chose the name herself—Bogdana. “God-given,” she said, rocking the baby. And Artyom and Lilya silently agreed. Sometimes the truest miracle is born from the most artificial, most desperate lie—like lighting an artificial sun on a leaden day just to chase the clouds away.