And each one wraps another thread around my heart.
I set my tea aside and stand. I need company. I need someone who understands this strange new world where care comes in the shape of morning vitamins and a man who reads parenting manuals at 3 a.m.
When I reach the main wing, I follow the soft hum of a lullaby.
Sophia’s voice. Warm, sure and full of love.
I pause at the doorway to the nursery.
She’s sitting in a rocking chair, her dressing gown slipping to reveal the slope of her shoulder, hair in a messy knot that still looks like a crown. Her newborn is cradled to her chest, nursing contentedly. She looks tired but unbreakably happy.
I feel something tug hard and deep inside me.
She notices me and beams. “Come in, Charlotte.”
I step forward slowly, as if afraid to disturb the peace in this room.
“How far along now?” she asks, eyes dipping fondly to my bump.
“Six months,” I say. My voice sounds shy, almost guilty.
“You’re glowing with it,” she says with a soft laugh.
I sink into the chair beside hers. The nursery is all soft grays and muted golds, stars painted on the walls like tiny promises. I want to memorise this room. Hold onto it for later.
“You doing okay?” she asks.
I nod. Then shake my head. Then laugh at myself. “Somewhere in the middle.”
Sophia gives me that look, the knowing kind. The one that doesn’t need words to understand.
“You miss him,” she says simply.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “When he’s here, the world feels… quieter somehow. But when he’s gone…” I shrug helplessly. “I start overthinking everything.”
Sophia shifts the baby to her other arm and sighs. “I get that. When Yury leaves, even for a day, the walls feel too big. Too empty. It’s like part of the house goes with him.”
I stare at my hands. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this for me.”
“No?” she asks gently.
I swallow.
“It’s a contract,” I say. “A year and some months. That was the deal. I give him a child and… then I go.”
Sophia watches me carefully. “Do you want to go?”
The question pierces me. Sharp and frightening.
I open my mouth to answer and nothing comes out.
Instead, tears prick hot behind my eyes.
Sophia reaches for my hand. “It’s okay to want more than what you agreed to when you were scared and the world looked different.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I lie.
“You do,” she says. “You’re just afraid to say it.”
