The door creaked open, and the cold air swept in, but Sergey didn’t seem to feel it. His coat was still on, a bottle in his hand, his face stern with disbelief.
“Four children?! Take them and get out! I don’t intend to put up with this!” he spat, his words sharp and cutting, as though they were jagged stones thrown at me.
I didn’t respond immediately. I stood there, frozen, my eyes fixed on the tiny cradles in front of me. Four little bodies, each of them no bigger than a soft sigh, breathing in the silence of the room.
Eighteen hours of labor, of pain that tore me apart and almost swallowed me whole. The flickering lights of the hospital, the sounds of the midwives’ frantic voices, and then… Petya, Masha, Lena, and Oleg, one by one. Each breath they took felt like a miracle. They were my everything, my tiny soldiers, each of them a part of me.
But Sergey? He couldn’t see it.
“You gave birth to four? Take them and figure it out yourself, this is too much!” he repeated, as if I were to blame for something beyond my control.
His words sliced through the air, but I remained silent. His contempt was too heavy to bear.
“Where were you when I needed you?” I finally whispered, my voice barely audible, barely holding back the flood of emotions threatening to break free.
Sergey ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking nervously. “How are we going to feed them?” he asked, his voice thick with frustration. “Where will the money come from? Who will take care of them?”
I stayed silent. The children were asleep. The house was silent except for the soft sounds of their breathing.
“You knew and were ready for this, now you’re acting like this?” I said, barely able to keep my calm. “Go away. Just leave.”
Sergey shook his head, disbelief written all over his face. “You’re crazy. Four kids. My God. I didn’t believe it until the very end.”
With a heavy sigh, he turned toward the door, pulling it open gently. The soft click of the lock echoed in the quiet room, marking the moment he left for good.
I watched him walk into the fading light, his back straight, not once turning to look at me. I didn’t cry. Instead, a quiet determination began to fill the space where pain had once resided.
Galina, the neighbor, was the first to arrive. Without a word, she set to work, sweeping the ashes from the fireplace and lighting the stove. Soon, others came. Nina Petrovna, the retired teacher, sat by the cradles, singing softly to the children. The women brought soup, diapers, and quiet support.
“You’ll manage, girl,” Baba Klava said with a knowing smile. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”
That night, after the others had left, I sat by the window, my heart heavy but resolute. The children were sleeping. The house was still. I looked at their tiny, peaceful faces—my four little ones—and whispered to myself, “I’ll manage.”
I dialed my father’s number. Three beeps.
“Daddy,” I said, voice shaking. “He’s gone.”
A long pause, then a deep, steady breath on the other end. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
The promise I made to myself that night felt as solid as the walls of our small house. I looked at my children’s tiny hands, their soft breaths, and knew I would do anything for them.
When my father arrived the next day, he placed all the money he had on the table without a word. His weathered hands brushed the cradles gently before he sat down, the same way he had done for me many years ago.
“Would you like some tea?” I offered, my voice steadier now.
“Yes,” he nodded. “And then I’ll build another room. It’s going to be cramped with four of them in winter.”
The next chapter of our lives began that day. Without Sergey. Without self-pity. With love.
And as the years passed, my four children grew strong like sunflowers, each following their own path but always reaching for the same light. Masha, the dreamer with gray eyes; Petya, the serious boy with a strong heart; Lena, the quiet thinker; and Oleg, the restless soul, full of imagination.
Each day was a lesson. A lesson in perseverance. In strength. And most importantly, in love.
And when my father, Grandfather Ivan, gathered his grandchildren every Saturday to teach them the ways of the world, I knew that no matter what happened, they would be all right. The roots of our family were deep, and nothing could ever break them.