The air in their apartment had grown thick and heavy, as if saturated with the dust of unrealized hopes. Veronika and Andrey, once inseparable and full of laughter, now moved through the rooms like shadows, afraid to brush against each other with a careless word.
Years of waiting, endless doctor visits, and negative pregnancy tests had forged a wall between them—made of unspoken grievances and silent despair. The room they had long since imagined as a nursery stood empty, and its silence screamed louder than any quarrel. They still loved each other, but their love was suffocating under the weight of a shared yet solitary pain.
That day Veronika felt ill right at work. The numbers in the report blurred, turning into smeared gray spots; the floor heaved, and she clutched the edge of the desk to keep from falling. The dizziness came over her in a sudden, stifling wave. Her boss, noticing her deathly pallor, didn’t listen to her babble about “just tired,” and practically forced her to go home.
Andrey found her on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and still shaking.
“Nika, what’s wrong?” His voice was full of alarm.
“I think I ate something bad at lunch,” she answered weakly. “Everything’s spinning.”
He laid a hand on her forehead. Cold, clammy skin.
“This isn’t food poisoning. We’re going to the hospital. Right now.”
“Andrey, don’t. It’ll pass…”
“It won’t,” he cut her off, already holding out her coat. There was a resolve in his eyes that brooked no argument. He was too afraid of losing her to believe in something as mundane as food poisoning.
The doctor’s office. Veronika sat on a chair, exhausted and irritated by all the fuss. She just wanted to go home to her own bed. Andrey paced a small patch of floor by the door. At last a gray-haired doctor came in with the test results in hand. He looked at them over his glasses and, unexpectedly, smiled—warmly, almost fatherly. The smile felt so out of place in the atmosphere of their anxiety that Veronika froze.
“Well now, young people,” the doctor said, setting the papers aside. “We can rule out poisoning. But what I can wholeheartedly congratulate you on is a pregnancy. About six weeks along.”
The world held still for a second, then exploded. Veronika couldn’t believe her ears, asked again, heard the confirmation, and only then let the tears pour down her face. Andrey collapsed onto the chair beside her, grabbed her hand and, burying his face in it, began to sob silently. They were not just tears of joy—they were tears of release from a years-long prison of hopelessness.
Nine months flew by like a single bright, sunlit dream. But it ended abruptly, crudely. The contractions started in the middle of the night—sharp, tearing, granting not a second’s respite. Andrey, pale but composed, raced through the empty nighttime streets, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other his wife’s ice-cold hand. Each of her moans echoed with pain in his own heart.
The admissions desk greeted them with indifferent calm. While Veronika writhed on the gurney, trying to breathe through another wave of pain, an older nurse filled out paperwork slowly, with visible laziness. Her pen scraped across the chart, measuring out eternity.
“Can you hurry up?” Andrey exploded, unable to stand it any longer. “She’s in pain!”
“Young man, don’t tell me how to do my job,” the woman replied coolly without looking up. “Everyone’s in pain, this is a maternity ward, you know.”
At that moment a tall woman in a white coat appeared in the corridor. She shot a stern glance at the nurse, then at them, and her face changed.
“Andrey? Veronika? What are the odds?”
Veronika struggled to focus. Margarita. They hadn’t seen each other in seven years. Long ago they’d run in the same crowd. Back then, Rita had been dating Andrey’s best friend, and after their loud breakup she had somehow slipped out of their lives. And now here she was—an obstetrician, their salvation.
Margarita took control of the situation instantly. With a few words she calmed Andrey and ordered that Veronika be prepped for delivery at once. Her confidence worked like magic.
“Don’t worry, Nika, I’ll look after you myself,” she said, examining her. “By the look of it, we’ll have to do a C-section—but that’s even better. Everything will be quick and under control. You’re in good hands.”
As they wheeled Veronika toward the operating room, Margarita walked beside her, peering kindly into her eyes.
“So, tell me—how have you two been all these years? Happy? Andrey, I see you carry her in your arms.”
She said ordinary things, seemingly, but there was something strange in her gaze—tense, almost predatory. Drugged by pain, Veronika couldn’t grasp what exactly was bothering her.
“I have no doubt everything will be fine,” Margarita said in parting, and her smile seemed cold and frightening to Veronika.
—
Consciousness returned slowly, viscously, as if she were forcing her way through layers of cotton. The first thing Veronika felt was the chill of the hospital room and a hollow silence. There was no baby’s cry. No flowers. No joy. With effort, she turned her head and saw Andrey.
He sat hunched on a chair by her bed, staring at a single spot on the floor. His face was ashen, his eyes red and swollen from tears. He was silent, and that silence was more terrifying than any scream. She opened her mouth to ask where their daughter was, but the words stuck in her throat. A horrible suspicion clamped her heart in an icy vise.
He finally lifted his gaze to her, and in his eyes was such an abyss of grief that Veronika couldn’t breathe.
“Our little girl…” His voice was hoarse and unfamiliar. “She’s gone. The doctors say… something went wrong during the operation. They couldn’t save her.”
The words fell into the deafening quiet of the room like stones. Veronika’s world cracked and shattered into a million shards. She wanted to scream, but only a faint, strangled rasp escaped her.
But Andrey didn’t give her even a moment to grasp the loss. He delivered a second blow—just as merciless and crushing.
“Nika, I… I’m filing for divorce. As soon as you’re discharged.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. This couldn’t be. This was some monstrous dream.
“What? Andrey… why?”
“I broke,” he exhaled, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. “I waited so many years… I can’t anymore. This is the end. I won’t survive it.”
Now she did scream. It was an inhuman howl of a wounded animal that had lost everything—its young and its pack. Andrey rushed to her, held her, and together they dissolved into a shared, soul-rending sob. They mourned their dead daughter and their dead family. For the last time they were together in their grief, already knowing that from here on each would go their own way, carrying only half of their common tragedy.
—
The parting was brief and hideous in its ordinariness. Andrey packed his things into two large bags. He left her the apartment—their nest turned mausoleum.
“Keep the keys. There’s nothing here I need,” he said without looking at her, and stepped out the door. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot, putting a period at the end of their story.
For several weeks Veronika wandered through the empty apartment like a ghost. Every object, every corner screamed of him, of them, of the happiness that never came to be. One morning, staring at the gray, indifferent sky outside the window, she realized she could no longer remain in this city.
The city choked her with memories. She had to run. Somewhere without people, without pitying looks, without a past. She sold the apartment, bought a small house in a remote village on the edge of a nature reserve, and disappeared.
—
Five years passed. Veronika had changed beyond recognition. From a gentle, vulnerable woman she had turned into a stern, reclusive ranger. Cropped hair, a weather-beaten face, rough work clothes, and the constant rifle slung over her shoulder. The locals were wary of her and called her “the hermit” behind her back. She built a high fence around her house, turning it into a small fortress, and let no one into her life. Her only companions were her dog and the forest.
She found a strange, bitter solace in being one with nature. Endless patrols of the forest lands, fighting poachers, hard physical labor—these crowded out the pain, leaving behind only a dull fatigue. She planted a large vegetable garden and an orchard, and her hands—once familiar only with manicures and keyboards—grew rough and calloused. The natural world slowly, millimeter by millimeter, healed her torn wounds, filling the emptiness inside with the rustle of leaves and birdsong.
The only thread connecting her to her former life was Andrey’s calls. Twice a year—on her birthday and his. Short, dry conversations full of awkward pauses. “Hi. Happy birthday. How are you?” — “Thanks. Fine. And you?” After these calls both of them felt hollowed out, as if they had picked at an old scar that never truly healed.
—
It was early spring. Veronika was working in the garden, turning over soil that had only just shed its snow. The air smelled of moisture and new life. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She looked at the screen in surprise—Andrey. A call at the wrong time, not a birthday, could mean only one thing—something had happened. Her heart gave a nervous jolt.
“Yes?” she answered, trying to keep her voice even.
“Nika, hi. Sorry to bother you,” his voice was tight. “I had a strange conversation. I needed to warn you.”
She straightened, setting down the shovel.
“What happened?”
“Do you remember Margarita? The one who delivered your baby.”
Veronika’s breath caught. She hadn’t heard that name in five years.
“I remember,” she said dully.
“She found me. And she insisted—very persistently—on your address. Said she felt guilty, wanted to apologize… In short, she was spouting some nonsense. I refused for a long time, but she was so… convincing. I ended up giving her the name of your village. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, but I thought you should know. She might come.”
A long pause. Then Andrey added, a note of bitterness in his voice:
“You know, after our divorce she tried very actively to… get close to me. Courted me, invited me places. Said we were both lonely and should help each other. I wasn’t ready for any relationship then, just brushed her off. And now I’m thinking… this is all very strange.”
For the first time in years, a terrifying suspicion sparked in Veronika’s mind.
Motive. Margarita had a motive.
The conversation unexpectedly warmed, as if bursting through a dam of many years. Veronika, surprising herself, began to talk about her garden, about the tomato seedlings, about last year’s preserves. Andrey listened, and there was undisguised envy in his voice.
“It must be so good for you out there. Quiet, nature…”
Veronika barely stopped herself from saying, “Come visit.” The thought, sudden and searing, frightened her. She quickly ended the call and hung up, feeling her heart hammering wildly.
—
Late evening wrapped the house in a dense, inky darkness. The wind howled outside, swaying the crowns of the pines. Veronika was sitting with a book by the fireplace when her dog, an old wolfhound named Gray, suddenly lifted his head and pricked his ears. But he didn’t bark. That was strange. And then, through the wail of the wind, Veronika heard a thin, plaintive cry and a faint knock at the gate.
Grabbing her rifle and a powerful flashlight, she stepped onto the porch. The crying came from the gate. Who could have come in such weather, in such wilderness? She lifted the heavy latch and swung the gate open, sweeping the beam outside. On the wet ground, huddled from cold and fear, stood a little girl. She looked about five. In a light jacket, soaked through, with huge, frightened eyes.
“Where did you come from, little one?” Veronika lowered the rifle. “How did you get here?”
She scooped up the shivering child and hurried her inside. Wrapping the girl in a warm blanket and setting a mug of hot tea before her, she tried to calm her.
“My aunt brought me,” the girl sobbed at last, warmed a little. “She stopped the car by the forest and told me to go straight-straight along the path, there would be a village. She said my mom was waiting for me there. So I went and got lost…”
Veronika’s heart clenched at the cruelty of it. To leave a child alone in a night forest!
“What’s your aunt’s name? Do you know?” she asked gently, stroking the girl’s tangled hair.
The child lifted her huge, tear-swollen eyes to Veronika and answered softly:
“Aunt Rita.”
The world ceased to exist for Veronika. It split open, as on that day in the hospital—only this time light burst from the cracks, blinding, monstrous light of realization. Aunt Rita. Margarita. Andrey’s call. Everything fit together into one picture, so wild the mind refused to accept it. She studied the girl’s face. Those eyes—her own eyes. That stubborn curve of the mouth—Andrey’s mouth. Recognition shocked through her like an electric current. It had to be a hallucination. It couldn’t be. This was her daughter. Alive.
Her hands shook so badly she could barely pick up the phone. Her fingers wouldn’t obey, missing the buttons several times. At last she dialed Andrey’s number.
“Come,” she whispered into the phone, gasping. “Come right now. Andrey… I think… our daughter has come to me.”
—
Andrey arrived at dawn. All the way he was sure grief and solitude had unhinged Veronika’s mind. He prepared words of comfort, thought about how he would persuade her to see a doctor. He walked into the house ready for anything—except what he saw.
On the couch, tucked under a blanket and softly snoring in her sleep, lay a little girl. He froze in the doorway as if rooted to the spot. He needed no DNA test. He looked at that small face and saw both of them. He saw five stolen years of his life. Slowly, as if in a dream, he sank to his knees before the couch.
The DNA test done a few days later was a mere formality, confirming the obvious. Anya was their daughter. An investigation began. Piece by piece, a picture of the crime emerged—monstrous in its simplicity.
Margarita, obsessed with unrequited love for Andrey, had devised a diabolical plan. During the C-section she switched the babies, pronouncing their healthy daughter dead. She registered the girl as an abandoned child and, after some time, adopted her herself, hoping that the family, destroyed by grief, would fall apart and that Andrey—broken and alone—would tumble into her arms.
When that didn’t happen, and years later she learned that Andrey still kept in touch with his ex-wife, panic and malice seized her. In a fit of both, she decided to get rid of the girl, dropping her at Veronika’s house—as a last, cruel reminder of the tragedy. A forensic psychiatric evaluation found Margarita insane.
—
They returned to the city. To the very apartment Andrey had once left. It no longer felt like a tomb. They renovated it, filled it with light, laughter, and children’s toys. The room that had stood empty for five years finally found its little mistress. Veronika, Andrey, and Anya learned to be a family again, carefully, tenderly rebuilding the broken bridges.
One evening, as Veronika was tucking Anya into bed, the girl looked at her with a serious, unchildlike gaze.
“Mommy, is it true—or not true—that you didn’t want me?” she asked quietly. The question was an echo of what “Aunt Rita” had told her.
Veronika hugged her daughter tightly, breathing in the scent of her hair. There was no pain left in her heart—only boundless tenderness.
“That’s the biggest untruth in the whole world, my sunshine,” she said, kissing the crown of Anya’s head. “You were stolen from us. But your dad and I never stopped loving you or waiting for you—not for a single day. And now you’re home. Forever.”
