The pregnancy had been unexpected. But it became a gift. A light. A hope.
Anton—my husband—was overjoyed. He dreamed of being a father. We lived modestly, in a small rented apartment, but we had plans. A house someday. A nursery. A crib. Laughter echoing through the rooms.
Every evening, he placed his hand on my belly and whispered: “Do you hear? This is our baby. He’ll be strong like his dad. Smart like his mom.”
We laughed, we picked names, we dreamed.
The pregnancy wasn’t easy—nausea, weakness, fear—but I endured it all for that first breath, that first cry.
When premature labor came, I was terrified. But Anton was there. He held my hand in the delivery room, slept in the hospital corridor, bought every IV the doctors ordered.
Our son was born too small. Too fragile. He needed an oxygen mask, tubes, constant monitoring. I barely left his incubator. When at last we were discharged, I thought: Now it will be easier. Now a new, good life will begin.
