“How long have you known?”
I settle back in my chair, folding my arms.
“I don’t know a thing.” I shrug. “You haven’t told me.”
She narrows her eyes. “Viktor.”
I lean in and take her hand gently. I can feel how tense she is. How scared she might be– not of me, but of disappointing me. Or of the unknown. Or maybe she’s afraid she’ll cry and embarrass herself. Suddenly, worry claws up my spine, sharp and unwelcome.
“Lepestok…” My voice drops. “If there’s something you need to tell me, you don’t have to be afraid.”
Her lower lip trembles, just slightly.
“Whatever it is,” I say quietly, tightening my grip on her hand, “I will support you. Always. Nothing you say will upset me.”
I wait, keeping my breath steady, forcing myself to stay still. Because if I’m wrong—if she isn’t pregnant—then I’ll comfort her through whatever this is.
But if I’m right…
If I’m right, I already know my life is about to change.
And I’ve never wanted anything more.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, her throat working like she’s trying to swallow a stone. Then she lets out a shaky breath and reaches into the pocket of her dress. She brings out a small, rectangular sheet and places it in my hand.
An ultrasound picture.
A tiny blur—a heartbeat frozen in black and white.
“Our baby,” she whispers.
My chest goes tight in a way I’ve never felt before. The world seems to narrow to just her voice, her trembling smile, the faint rise and fall of her breath.
I look up at her.
And even though I’ve guessed it—it still hits me like a storm.
“You’re pregnant,” I say quietly, reverently.
She nods.
But her smile is weak. And when I look closer, I see the fear behind her eyes.
“You’re…not happy?” I ask carefully.
Her expression crumples on the edges. “No. No, Viktor. I’m not unhappy.” Her hand flies to her stomach, protective by instinct. “I just waited too long.”
I glance again at the ultrasound. The date.
It’s been ten weeks.
My brows draw together. “Ten weeks?”
She nods, embarrassed. “I know. I should’ve told you sooner.” She clasps her hands together tightly. “I just…I was scared.”
A cold spike of dread slips down my spine. “Scared of what,lepestok?”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and there is something terribly old and terribly sad in them. “I’m scared I’m not gonna do this right. My childhood—” she trails off, pressing her lips together as if it’s hard for her to continue. But then she lifts her face bravely. “My parents didn’t set the best example….” Her voice shakes. “I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to be like my mother.”
