We lie on the hospital bed, kissing sweetly. In every touch, in every kiss, I feel that long-awaited lightness and happiness—like a warm ray of sun breaking through the gray clouds of our past struggles, filling my heart with hope and calm. It feels like a breath of fresh air after long days of worry and pain. It's so comforting to feel that our life is starting to get better, that together we can overcome anything, that our hearts now beat in one rhythm despite all trials.
Of course, danger still looms ahead—my ailing heart remains a serious reminder that we are about to face a challenge that will test our strength. But I am confident it's not an overwhelming threat, that we will endure everything, and we will have a strong little boy whom we will surround with all our love, warmth, and protection.
"I'm so happy we're having a son," Maxim says to me, moving from my lips to my cheek, not breaking contact with my skin.
His touches are gentle, full of love and quiet joy, as if he is speaking without words about his happiness, pride, and faith in our future. I feel his warmth spreading to me, calming and inspiring me at the same time.
"Have they told you how old he is already?" I ask happily, feeling the warmth of his love wrap around me, like we are an island of calm in a stormy sea of worries.
"Yes, two weeks," he answers, now kissing my neck and moving lower.
His breath grows slightly deeper, and his touches become even more tender, as if he fears breaking this fragile moment, afraid to let go of me even for a second.
"Did you think about that same night I did, my love?" I ask, catching his face in my hands as he leans closer to my chest with kisses.
In the hospital, despite all the passion, I don't want to make love—there is too much anxiety and uncertainty, too many strangers' eyes, and the smell of medicine.
"Our first time after so many years—in the car. Did you think about it?" he suggests with a light, warm, playful smile in his voice that makes all fears momentarily fade.
"Yes, because that time we had no protection. Even though it happened just once, I think that was the moment," we both feel this thought linking our hearts with an invisible thread, giving us strength and confidence.
"I think so too," he murmurs, despite my attempts to pause him, continuing to kiss my collarbone softly and persistently, as if he wants to convince me not to doubt, not to fear.
"Wait. No, no, no! This can't happen, because I…" Suddenly, realization pierces me.
I sit up sharply, pulling myself with my hands and bracing on the edge of the bed, as if trying to cling to the reality slipping through my fingers. Everything around me seems to shrink, narrowing to one single feeling—anxiety, thick and heavy, wrapping my chest with a steel band, not letting me breathe.
My heart beats faster, unevenly, thudding in my ears. My palms are damp, my breath ragged. My eyes dart around the room but see nothing—I'm not here. I'm inside myself, face to face with the truth I have tried so hard to avoid.
"Don't scare me, tell me what happened," my love asks, still lying down but supporting himself on one arm, his voice mixing concern and care, and I see his eyes fill with worry.
"Do you remember what happened yesterday?" I try to remind him, my heart racing, as if a fire has ignited in my chest.
"First of all, it's not yesterday, it's the day before," he gently corrects, trying to stay calm, as if shielding me from panic.
"I don't care, just understand what I mean," I insist, feeling the tension rise, anxiety pulling me down.
"Are you worried that because you were half-naked, and then we slept outside, you might get sick?" he guesses, trying to find the source of my worry, wanting to help me rid myself of fear.
"No, it was even warm that night. I mean, I was drinking champagne," I remind him honestly, feeling the words escape my soul, a small attempt to free myself from anxious thoughts.
"There wasn't that much. Of course, we can talk to the doctor, but I'm sure nothing will harm our son. You're not an alcoholic, drinking bottle after bottle. We only had a couple of glasses. And when I closed the bottle yesterday morning, it was even half full," his words sound calm and confident, like a reliable shield protecting me from fears, wrapping me in warmth and safety.
His words soothe me. They settle over my heart softly, like a blanket, covering my anxiety, quieting the storm inside. I take a deep breath, allowing myself to relax. My body seems to remember what it's like to be safe. Slowly, trusting, I sink back onto the pillow, feeling the mattress embrace me. Under my head—the familiar coolness of the pillowcase, the rustle of the sheet, the smell of night and his presence.
Maxim moves slightly closer, almost silently, his arm wrapping around me—firm but gentle, as if embracing not just my body but my weary soul. His hand rests on my side, warm, reliable, real. I feel his chest rising and falling behind me, and this steady rhythm—my beloved's breathing—feels stronger than all fears. His chin touches the back of my head, and in this quiet contact, there is so much tenderness that the tears stuck in the corners of my eyes melt, without even falling.
We lie in silence, only the heart beating somewhere deep, not anxious—alive. In this calm, full of love, hope, and endless closeness, I feel that no matter what, together we can endure anything. Here, in these arms, all boundaries vanish—between pain and healing, between loneliness and belonging.
This is our fortress—not made of stone, but of mutuality. Our world, woven from soft light, patience, and unspoken words. Here, fears recede, dissolving into the darkness, giving way to quiet faith that tomorrow will be fine. We are together—and that is enough.
"The doctor just said that you should stay calm and try not to worry. Also, take your pills. And I want you to tell me honestly how you feel, understood?" he says to me strictly.
His voice is unusually serious, almost commanding, but it carries love and care, which makes every word especially important and warm. I feel his worry overflowing in his heart, and it both alarms and touches me. His words carry a deep sense of responsibility that makes me feel protected and loved.
"I understand, it's very important. We'll follow the doctor's recommendations, and I won't hide any pain or discomfort from you," I fully agree, feeling the responsibility and the desire to take care of myself and our baby. My words carry sincere determination, a promise to the most precious person, and the warmth of hope that everything will be okay.
"I also don't want you to be alone at home when I'm not around. Pregnancy isn't an illness, and I understand that. I wouldn't set such rules if it weren't serious," he continues, establishing his rules with care and firmness.
"What do you mean, not be alone?" I ask, not fully understanding. My voice carries slight worry and a desire to understand exactly what he means, mixed with a light anxiety over the new restrictions.
"If I go away for classes, someone from our friends or my mom will come over," he explains.
"And what, I won't even be able to go to the bathroom alone?" I ask, irritated, feeling this overprotection press on me a little.
A subtle, almost imperceptible discontent passes through me, like a weak but persistent wind. It weaves into my thoughts, coloring them in dull, grayish tones. A light but noticeable resentment tickles somewhere in my chest, as if I bump into an invisible wall behind which trust and understanding are hidden—but I'm not allowed in. I feel restricted, as if put in a frame, and it stings—not loudly, but deeply.
At the same time, fear rises inside me—not panic, but cold, alert fear. Fear of losing that fragile yet precious freedom I cling to. Fear of becoming small and dependent again, like back when everything was decided for me. It lives in the shadow of every "no," every restriction, whispering: "They want to take away your independence." And in that moment, two forces clash inside me—quiet protest and uncertainty, frozen on the border between heart and mind.
"Don't exaggerate. If you faint again or your heart seizes, no one except Mary will be there with you…"
When he starts speaking, I am still trying to resist internally, defending my right to choose, to have freedom, to live as I want, even if it means pain and fatigue. But with every phrase, my resistance melts like ice under the sun.
"Our daughter isn't old enough to understand what to do in such situations. She will just sit next to you, not understanding what's happening to her mom."
These words sound like a snap. I suddenly imagine: the room, dim light, me—unconscious on the floor. Mary sits next to me, frightened, eyes wide open. Her small hands helplessly clench into fists. She calls me, but I don't answer. And in her gaze—panic, confusion, despair. She's alone. Completely alone.
My heart tightens. I hear his voice through this scene, as if he speaks from another world, while I stand in the silence of my imagination, watching what could happen. He isn't scaring me—he is showing the truth I have turned away from. And in that truth, there is not only warning but care. His anxiety isn't irritation, it is pain—real, masculine, deep. He loves me. And he is afraid.
"You understand that it's so serious that by the time I come home tonight, you could already be dead?"
These words echo inside me. And I understand. I realize how selfish my previous stubbornness sounds. I thought I was protecting my independence, but in reality, I am hiding from responsibility. Not just for myself—but for them. For him. For our daughter.
I feel ashamed. Truly. As if I stand on the edge of a cliff and only now see how close I have come to the abyss. And in that moment, I feel: I'm not alone. He is here. And his love is not chains, but hands ready to catch me if I fall.
"Darling," he begins lightly stroking my face with his hand, and at that moment it feels like all his strength and care are concentrated in that touch. "No one will bother you. They'll just check on you from time to time, see how you're doing. The rest of the time, do whatever you want. But of course, if you don't come out of the bathroom for about forty minutes, they will definitely knock."
At the end, he makes me laugh with his light joke, easing the heaviness of the moment.
I smile, and in that instant, a tender connection arises between us, full of trust and mutual understanding. In his laughter and gaze, there is so much love that I realize—we will overcome any difficulties together.
"You're right, it's better if someone is nearby," I agree, understanding that there really is sense and safety in this. Peace and confidence settle in my soul, and I feel the anxiety slowly retreat, giving way to hope.
"I don't want to be a despot. And notice, before the doctor told me about the heart problems, I never controlled or restricted you. It will be the same after the birth. More precisely, as soon as the doctor says there's no danger. I care about you and our son and don't want anything to happen to you," he admits honestly, and his words sound like a promise of love and protection, giving warmth and the feeling of a real family. In that confession, there is so much sincerity that I can't help responding with the same feeling.
"Don't worry, I never even thought of you like that," I reassure him, feeling trust and tenderness strengthen between us. My heart fills with love and gratitude, and I know we can handle anything that happens.
"If you want, we can stay at my mom's. She will definitely be happy about it," he suggests, carefully opening a new possibility of support, as if creating an extra circle of protection and warmth around us.
"I'll think about it along the way," I answer laughing, feeling that despite all the difficulties, together we can handle everything fate gives us. It is a confidence that warms and inspires, filling every day with light and hope, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.
The next day we go to Elena Dmitrievna's. Since both she and Viktor are there, we want to tell them everything happening in our lives, to share the most intimate moments. My chest holds a light flutter of excitement mixed with anticipation—as if butterflies are flying inside me while my heart beats faster. After all, we are about to reveal something that will change our entire lives, and the feeling inside seems to glow with a special light and anxiety at the same time.
Maxim also calls Vera so that she can come too. Of course, she would be upset if we told everyone but didn't invite her. It is our shared concern—that no one feels left out, that all the important people are present for this significant moment that will remain in memory forever.
We still have to tell my grandmother about it, but for that, we have to visit her. Maxim and I, as promised, have already visited her several times before. She is always so happy to see us, genuinely surprised and touched by our visit—she hadn't expected it. But that was before we knew we were having a baby.
"Who will tell them?" my beloved asks as we pull up to his mother's house. His voice sounds slightly nervous, but it carries the same confidence that always supports me and gives me strength.
"Let me. You already had your chance to tell me, so I'll tell the others," I decide slyly, feeling a light smile appear on my lips, warmth spreading inside from our usual playful banter.
"Clever, clever, it's obvious who I fell in love with," he kisses me, and in that moment, everything inside me warms, as if the world has become a little kinder and brighter. "I don't care, so I personally don't mind if you tell them."
Maxim helps me out of the car, carefully supporting my waist, as if guarding every movement. His hand holds mine firmly, and without letting go, we slowly walk toward the house. I feel tension and excitement growing with each step—my heart beating loudly, as if marking the rhythm of an important event. Two feelings mix in my chest: anxious anticipation and bright joy. I am afraid and yet longing for what is about to happen. This is not just an evening, not just a visit. This is the beginning of something new—important, big, ours.
When Maxim opens the door, a warm light and a faint scent of cinnamon, tea, and something familiar envelop me. We enter, and I immediately see that everyone is here. They have gathered near the sofa, as if waiting, holding their breath. But there is no tension—only soft, kind anticipation.
It surprises me. Viktor stands slightly to the side, and I immediately notice his playful wink at Maxim—he knows something, but doesn't show it. His smile is the same signature, mysterious one, always hiding half the meaning.
And then I see her. Grandmother. She stands among everyone—slightly aside, but as always, at the center of my heart. Her eyes sparkle. I don't remember letting go of Maxim, how my feet carry me to her—I rush into her arms, pressing tightly against her, like in childhood when the world feels frightening and her arms are the only shield. We hug as if one soul lives in both of us. Her fingers stroke my back, slowly and rhythmically, just like she used to when I couldn't sleep. She smells of "grandmother's" perfume—that subtle scent that, for me, means home, love, and memory.
In that moment, everything around seems to stop. My roots, my childhood, my support—all of it is in these arms. I feel that I am not alone. That everything is right. That I am moving into my life without losing what is most precious.
"I've missed you so much," I whisper, crying on her shoulder, and the tears I have held back for so long finally find their way out. These are tears of relief, happiness, and a long-awaited feeling.
Before pregnancy, I rarely allow myself to cry. Not because I didn't feel—on the contrary, everything often boiled inside, like under a thin layer of ice. I had just learned too long to be strong, composed, restrained. Tears seemed like a weakness one couldn't afford if one wanted to endure. But sometimes they still came—and then I would hide away, turn away, swallow them in silence so no one would see how fragile what I was building really was.
Of course, there were moments when emotions took over. The worst was when Ivan kidnapped and beat Maxim. I still remember how my insides tore apart when I found out. It was as if someone ripped the air from me. I didn't just cry—I sobbed. Without shame, without control, convulsively, as if only tears could push out the horror and pain tearing at my chest. I had no concern for appearance, no words. In that moment, everything disappeared, leaving only one thought: as long as Maxim survived.
Then came the first pregnancy. And I seemed to split—the old, hardened, detached me steps back. Tears become my companions. I cry from happiness, from fear, from exhaustion. The future seems both close and frighteningly unknown. These are tears of purification—for everything I have held inside for so long, denying myself feeling.
And now, during the second pregnancy, it all repeats. But now the tears hold more light. I no longer fear them. They are like rain on a warm day—sudden, abundant, but gentle. I can walk through the kitchen and suddenly feel the baby kick, stop, and cry from overwhelming tenderness. Or wake up last night, hearing Maxim breathe nearby, and suddenly realize: we are parents again. We choose life again. And at that moment, the tears come easily—like breath, like a prayer, like a reminder that the miracle is here, inside me.
"There, there, it's okay, Katrinka," she replies gently, as if trying to pass me her strength and support, her boundless love and care.
"Darling, remember, we were going to tell them something," my beloved whispers in my ear, his voice soft but insistent, letting me know it is time to gather courage.
"Yes, yes. Grandma, I want to tell you and everyone something," I say, stepping slightly aside, feeling my heart stop for a moment, my breath quicken with excitement.
"I hope it's good news," grandmother frowns, and I can see her eyes full of anticipation and slight anxiety, as if her heart is already trying to feel joy but is a little afraid.
"Very good, don't worry," my beloved reassures her, his hand holding mine tightly, letting her know that we are together and everything will be fine.