"He won't survive," I say numbly.
"He might. Twenty-five weeks is the edge of viability. NICU can work miracles. But if we don't deliver immediately, we lose them both."
The choice. The same choice I faced sixteen years ago. Wife or child.
Except this time, I know which I'm choosing.
"Save her," I say. "If we lose the baby, we lose him. But I won't lose her."
Dr. Volkov nods, understanding. Turns to explain to Sonya—
She grabs his arm with surprising strength. "No. We fight for both. You deliver him, you save him. I'm not giving up on our son."
"Sonya—" I start.
"No." Her voice is steel despite the pain. "We don't choose. We fight for both. That's the only option."
Dr. Volkov looks between us. "The surgery is dangerous. Emergency C-section with placental abruption carries significant risk of hemorrhage, complications—"
"Then you deal with those complications," she says. "But you have to save our baby. Both of us. That's the deal."
He nods. "We'll do everything we can. Surgery in fifteen minutes. Maksim, you can be present if you want, but—"
"I'm there. Wherever she goes, I go."
They prep her for surgery at 10:15 PM. I'm given scrubs, a mask, and told where to stand. The operating room is cold, bright, clinical.
Sonya is on the table by 10:25 PM. Epidural administered quickly—no time for standard protocols, this is an emergency. She's awake, terrified, holding my hand with a crushing grip.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know. Me too. But you're the strongest person I know. You'll get through this."
"Promise me—if they have to choose—save him. Please. Don't let me lose another baby."
"Another baby?" I'm confused until I realize—she means Elena's daughter. The baby that died with Elena. Sonya sees them as connected, as babies she's responsible for saving.
"I promise," I lie. Because if it comes to choice, I'm choosing her. Every time. Without hesitation.
The surgery begins at 10:45 PM.
I don't watch. Can't watch. Just hold her hand, stay by her head, whisper promises neither of us can keep.
At 11:17 PM, I hear it.
A cry. Weak, thin, barely more than a mew. But alive.
"It's a boy," someone announces. "One pound, eight ounces. Respiratory distress. NICU team standing by."
I catch a glimpse—tiny, impossibly tiny, red and struggling. Then he's gone, rushed away by the NICU team to whatever miracles they can perform.
The surgery continues. Longer than it should. Something's wrong—I can see it in the medical team's faces, hear it in their urgent voices.
"Hemorrhaging. Can't control it. We need to—"
Dr. Volkov's voice cuts through: "Hysterectomy. Now. It's the only way to stop the bleeding."
Hysterectomy. Removing the uterus. No more children. Ever.
