"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, hands on my bump. "Growing our son. Creating life."
"I feel huge."
"You feel perfect."
We make love on our sides—the position that works best now with the bump. He enters me from behind, slow and careful, one hand staying on my stomach throughout.
The baby moves while we're connected.
Distinct flutter against Maksim's palm. He freezes.
"Was that—?"
"Him. He's moving."
"He knows my voice," Maksim says with wonder. Speaks directly to my bump while still inside me. "Hello, little one. This is your papa. We're so excited to meet you. Your mama is incredible—so strong, so brave. You're lucky to have her."
The baby moves again. Stronger this time.
I laugh through tears. "He's responding to you."
"Our son," Maksim says, moving again slowly, carefully. "Our boy."
We finish gently, both talking to the bump, celebrating the life we've created. When we're done, Maksim stays pressed against my back, hand never leaving my stomach, feeling every small movement.
"Twenty more weeks," I say. "End of June. He'll be born in late June."
"Summer baby. Good. Easier than winter."
"Did you ever imagine this? When Elena died, when you were alone for fifteen years—did you imagine having another child?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "No. I couldn't let myself imagine it. It felt like betrayal. Like hoping for something I didn't deserve after failing to protect them."
"And now?"
"Now I can't imagine not having this. Not having you, not having him. The guilt is still there—will probably always be there. But it doesn't crush me anymore. It just—exists. Part of my history, not my entire identity."
"Elena would be happy for us."
"She would. We honored her properly. Built her dream. Laid her to rest with peace. Now we're building our own future. That's what she'd want."
The baby moves again—stronger, more insistent. Like he's demanding attention.
"He's going to be stubborn," I say.
"Takes after his mother."
"And his father."
We fall asleep like that—Maksim behind me, hand on bump, both of us connected to the life we're creating. Twenty weeks down. Twenty weeks to go.
Our son. Nikolai or Stefan or whatever name we finally choose. Growing healthy and strong. Moving and responding and becoming real.
The foundation is thriving. Anton is gone. The past is honored and at peace.
And we're building a legacy—not just through the foundation and the students we're helping, but through this baby who'll carry both our names, both our histories, into whatever future he chooses.
Five months pregnant. Halfway there.
