The tall poplar’s shadow stretched halfway across the yard when the Beckets’ home plunged into the darkest moment of their sixteen years together. The living room air, thick with tobacco smoke and silent tension, felt almost tangible, as if it could be sliced with a knife. Artem Viktorovich, a man whose hands bore dark veins and whose eyes commanded authority, clutched his temples, struggling to suppress the growing pain. Across from him, his wife Lilya curled inward like a small creature, nervously twisting the hem of her worn knitted sweater. Her orderly, pristine world was crumbling visibly, while the cause of this upheaval sat silently between them, her gaze fixed on the floor.
It was their daughter, Ariana — quiet, withdrawn, smelling faintly of baby cream and books — now enveloped in a foreign, troubled, and bitter secret.
Everything started unassumingly. At a routine school medical checkup, Ariana adamantly refused to see the gynecologist. The homeroom teacher, precise and anxious, contacted Lilya, hinting at “strange and irrational behavior.” Anticipating the worst, Lilya attempted a gentle conversation over raspberry tea, but Ariana remained silent, staring into her cup, her fingers whitening from gripping the spoon so tightly.
Then, Ariana revealed it — a neatly folded note from the private clinic “Eden.” It was not just a statement but a verdict: ten weeks pregnant. The diagnosis sounded almost mocking: “Physiological uterine pregnancy.”
Artem Viktorovich read the paper and, as if slowed by invisible chains, sank into his chair. His pupils narrowed to pinpoints.
“Explain,” his voice rasped like a rusty door on a windy day. “Who is he?”
Ariana only shook her head without looking up, her long lashes casting shadows over pale, almost translucent cheeks. It seemed she might dissolve under this interrogation.
“It was my choice. He’s not involved,” she whispered, steel hidden beneath her voice — a tone Lilya had never before heard.
“You’re protecting a scoundrel!” Artem Viktorovich slammed his fist on the armrest, making a crystal vase tremble on the table. His hand reached for the pack of Belomor cigarettes. “I’ll break him to pieces! Rot in jail! Tell me his name right now!”
“Artem, no! The smoke… it’s harmful!” Lilya instinctively snatched the pack from him, her voice trembling. Her defense was not for her daughter but for a grandchild, a descendant yet to be born — the one already turning their world upside down.
“How could you, as a mother, not notice?” He shifted his eyes to her, filled with rage and powerlessness. “She was right under your nose! You always said she was home on time, not roaming!”
“I’m sorry,” Lilya lowered her gaze, burning guilt spreading through her veins. “I… I never imagined. She is still our little girl…”
“So, you won’t say the name?” Artem leaned over his daughter again, his shadow engulfing her completely. “I’ll find out. Everything. And then he won’t fare well. I swear it.”
“Dad, please, don’t,” her plea was surprisingly calm, almost detached.
“Then he must marry you! Support you and your…” He hesitated, searching for the word. “Offspring!”
“Artem!” Lilya jumped, alarmed. “She’s our daughter! And our grandchild, mind you!”
“I don’t want to marry,” Ariana shook her head again. “At least, not now.”
“That’s right, dear,” Lilya stammered cautiously, glancing at her husband. “Your father and I will take care of everything. We’ll arrange the papers. He’ll be like a son or a daughter to us! You always wished for a sister, Ariana?”
Artem Viktorovich looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. His face twisted in a grimace of disgust.
“Are you crazy, Lilya? Wake up!”
“Please, mom,” Ariana lifted her eyes to her mother for the first time. They were stormy, endless, the color of a thunderous sky. “I can’t lie to him my whole life. I can’t watch him call you mom and dad, and me… his sister.”
Something in her gaze made Lilya cringe inwardly — an irreversible fissure.
“Ariana, you’re still a child yourself!” Lilya exclaimed, tears finally pouring from her burning eyes. “School, university… Your whole life ahead! With a child, you’ll bury it! Poverty, constant exhaustion, illnesses! And no decent man will marry you!”
“I don’t want that!” Ariana turned sharply toward the window, watching the setting sun.
“You’ll go to Aunt Sveta in Reutov to give birth,” Lilya insisted, wiping away tears and trying to steady herself. “She’ll get you into a good maternity hospital. Quiet, calm. Meanwhile, count on us.”
She challenged her husband with a look, but Artem remained silent, focused on the smoky ashtray.
When Ariana went to the store for bread, silence exploded. Artem unleashed a torrent of accusations toward Lilya.
- “You spoiled her! Raised a sorcerer! This is the result of your permissiveness!”
- “And you?!” she snapped, retreating toward the buffet. “You carried her in your arms! ‘Daddy’s princess’! Don’t blame me alone! If you stayed home more, none of this might have happened!”
- “And what do you need this grandchild for?” he shouted, losing control. “Why? You’re forty-two! You won’t cope! Your back, your health!”
- “Thanks for reminding me of my age!” Lilya blazed, wounded deeply. “Others my age are just starting their lives! I — maybe I still hoped… to have a baby of my own!”
Artem Viktorovich froze, mouth open. A careless cigarette hung on his lip.
“Really?” He whispered, voice suddenly softening. “Lilya… forgive me. I didn’t mean your age… It’s just… hard. And your back…”
“Leave me alone!” she turned away but exploded again when she heard the familiar match strike. “Don’t smoke here! Go outside! Now!”
“Yes, ma’am!” he saluted unexpectedly, making her lips twitch despite herself. That small smile lifted his spirits. She wasn’t one to sulk for long; that was her defining trait.
The secret couldn’t be kept for long. Ariana’s best friend, the fiery and restless Snezha, failed to contain such an explosive truth. Within a day, whispers spread throughout the school, from first-graders to the deputy principal — “Becketova is pregnant.” Ariana had already been teased for her shyness and slight plumpness, but now she was bullied mercilessly. She was pointed at, used as a punchline for vulgar jokes, and some so-called “well-wishers” left diapers and baby food in her locker. Most distressingly, no one, absolutely no one, even suspected who the father might be. Ariana didn’t socialize with boys or go on dates. Her pregnancy was an immaculate conception — a mockery of logic.
Clenching his teeth, Artem Viktorovich paid to have his daughter transferred to home-schooling under a fabricated certificate citing “severe nervous exhaustion.”
Secretly, he launched his own investigation. Mentally, he ran through every young man nearby: neighborhood hooligans, senior students, young factory workers. He even hired a mustached private investigator in a worn trench coat, but the fee rivaled the price of a new Moskvich car. Fed up, Artem took another path. He offered a reward — one-third less, but still substantial — for information about the “scoundrel.”
Thus began hell. His phone rapidly bombarded by calls, Artem Viktorovich had to take time off work just to answer the relentless ring. Reward hunters flocked like crows on carrion, pointing at some Sergei the drunkard, Vitya the rocker, local students. No proof existed. Their typical exchange was:
- “Hello! You pay for information?” squeaked a teenage voice.
- “Maybe,” Artem replied, piercing the receiver with his gaze.
- “Deposit first! Half!”
- “You’ll get the full sum once I know you’re telling the truth.”
Usually, the call ended abruptly. Yet, some “eyewitnesses” emerged. One swore to have seen Ariana kissing a dark-haired boy in a leather jacket at the entrance. Another claimed she secretly met a married swimming coach.
“Too bad I didn’t have a camera!” lamented one informant. “If I had, I’d take a photo!”
“When was that?” Artem jotted down the name.
“About two months ago…”
But two months ago, according to the certificate, Ariana was already pregnant. Artem silently hung up, lighting another cigarette. His ashtray resembled a miniature graveyard.
During these days, Irina called him.
“I told you not to call here,” he hissed, pressing his palm over the receiver.
“You’ve forgotten me entirely,” she whined. “Not visiting, not calling…”
“I’m busy,” he excused, feeling goosebumps down his spine.
“Ah, yes. I heard. You’re about to become a grandfather… Artem, I miss you…”
“Artem, who is that?” Lilya stood in the doorway of his office, pale with dark circles under her eyes.
“Nobody,” he said, ending the call. His heart pounded in his throat. “Why are you so pale?”
“I told you not to smoke here!” She gestured at the overflowing ashtray. “Quit this filthy habit!”
“Sorry, Lilya… nerves…” He stubbed out the cigarette.
Suddenly, the phone chirped with an incoming SMS from Irina.
Lilya raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“Alexander Ivanovich,” he lied, shocked by his own helplessness. “Invites me fishing.”
He glanced at the screen covertly: “So, I’m nobody to you?”
“Your lies get worse, Artem,” Lilya shook her head, leaving him drowning in guilt and shame.
“Lilya! Lilyushka!” he called after her. “I never lied to you! Never!”
“Did you?” she turned, and in her eyes, he saw not anger but infinite weariness and pain. “Oh, my heart sensed…”
“No! You… you’re the only woman in my life!” he blurted, grabbing her hands.
“You sly fox,” she playfully warned. “Watch out for me…”
On Monday, Artem Viktorovich left for work earlier than usual. He planned to meet Irina and tell her it was over. Climbing the staircase to her apartment, he rehearsed his words carefully to avoid sounding cruel.
He knocked with a code: two short taps, one long. No one answered for a while. Relieved, he was about to leave when the door creaked open. A large, sleepy man clad in wrinkled family underpants and a tank top yawned.
“What do you want, dad?” he mumbled.
Behind him, Artem saw Irina’s pale, terrified face, her hands folded in pleading.
“Is Alexander Ivanovich home?” Artem forced out.
“No such person here,” the man grunted, slamming the door.
“Thank God,” Artem thought, descending the stairs. Relief flooded him. This affair had burdened him from the start. Now, he was free.
Returning home, he stopped at the most upscale store and bought the French perfume Lilya had coveted for years, adding a large bouquet of scarlet roses and a bottle of champagne.
“What’s this?” she asked, confused as she opened the door. “Is it a celebration?”
“Just wanted to please you,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.
“What is this? A celebration?” Ariana echoed from the doorway of her room.
“For you too, sunshine,” their father offered, handing her a large box of expensive Belgian chocolates filled with truffle. “Your favorite.”
“Thanks, daddy!” Her face lit with a rare smile.
“Chocolates?” Lilya gently tapped her husband’s shoulder with the bouquet. “Chocolate is a strong allergen! She can’t have it!”
“I thought… since she’s still early in pregnancy, it might be okay…”
“Ariana, what does the doctor say?” Lilya perked up immediately. “When can I talk to him? We need to plan!”
“Mom, parent presence is only necessary if they direct for an abortion,” Ariana said softly.
“Knock on wood,” Lilya sputtered, spitting over her shoulder. “But can you have chocolates at least?”
“Yes,” Ariana nodded.
Then something incredible happened. Ariana approached and simultaneously embraced them both, pressing her face against them. The three stood entangled in arms, flowers, and boxes — long estranged as a family. They sat at the kitchen table. A fragile and uncertain truce settled.
“Your father and I will move to your room,” Lilya dreamily said, pouring tea. “It faces the sun. You and the baby will take our bedroom! Yes, your father filled it with smoke… but there are services now — ozone treatments and all. We’ll renovate!”
“I’ll do it myself,” Artem interrupted. “New wallpaper, stretch ceiling… Daughter, will you pick the wallpaper? Bears or bunnies?”
“God, I’m so happy!” Lilya clasped her fingers. “I dreamed of pushing a stroller… with a tiny baby inside! By the way, when’s your ultrasound? When will we know the sex?”
Ariana slowly chewed a chocolate, staring past them, into the wall.
“I don’t think anytime soon,” she said.
“What do you mean not soon?” Lilya was upset. “Four months is when it usually shows!”
“Mom, Dad,” Ariana’s voice barely rose above a whisper, eyes fixed on her cup. “I have to tell you… I’m actually not pregnant.”
Silence fell heavy, dense, ringing. Lilya froze, tray in hand.
“Not pregnant?” she whispered, her face blanched. “What happened? You didn’t… did you?”
“There’s no baby,” Ariana avoided their eyes. “I made him up. The clinic note… I bought it near the metro. It’s fake.”
Artem Viktorovich almost dropped the champagne bottle as he tried to open it.
“What?!” His voice cracked high-pitched.
“What about the doctor who issued the certificate?” Lilya clung to her last hope.
“I never went to any doctor. Forgive me.”
Then it finally dawned on Lilya why her daughter resisted so fiercely whenever she suggested visiting the clinic together or having tests. Why conversations about analyses made Ariana uncomfortable.
“But… why?” Lilya’s voice trembled. She still couldn’t believe the one she had mentally swaddled, cradled, and named — didn’t exist. “Why did you do this to us? Tell me!”
“I wanted you and Dad to be together again,” Ariana answered, her voice gaining firmness. “So you’d stop fighting. So Dad… so Dad would come back home.”
Lilya looked at her, bewildered.
“We… weren’t even fighting that much…” she slowly replied. “I already bought you a book — ‘The Most Beautiful Names.’ I thought we’d pick together…”
“Forgive me,” Ariana’s voice wavered as she finally met their lost, empty expressions. “I didn’t know how much you needed him… If you want, I can…”
“No!” Artem’s voice rang out, almost commanding. “There’s a time for everything! Starting tomorrow — back to school! I’ll call your homeroom teacher!”
“But…”
“No ‘buts’!”
Ariana lowered her head and left the kitchen silently.
Lilya watched her go in silence.
“I’m such a fool,” she whispered softly. “I noticed she was losing weight… when she should’ve been gaining…”
Artem approached to embrace her but she pulled away.
“Don’t be sad. We’ll have grandchildren someday. For sure.”
“What did she mean, Artem?” Lilya raised her eyes, tearless but piercing with a cold question. “‘So Dad would come home.’ What does that mean? What should I know?”
Artem Viktorovich sank heavily onto a chair. The moment had come.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He coughed. “I was afraid you’d never forgive me. Once… our daughter saw me with another woman. I promised her I’d end it. But I broke my word.”
Lilya sat motionless, petrified, seemingly breathless.
“Leave, Artem,” she finally managed in a strangled, foreign voice. “I don’t want to see you.”
“I won’t go.”
“Then I’ll pack and leave.” She stood, but he blocked her path.
“You saw what she did! You understand why? Please, I can’t leave. Who knows what she might do next? I ended it with that woman. Completely. For you. For her. Forgive me.”
Lilya silently left the kitchen.
Artem hoped she would quickly recover, as usual. But this time was different. She ignored him for three days. He tried joking and teasing — she just walked away silently. On the fourth day, desperate, he told a silly tailor joke and she faintly smiled. That was enough.
Emboldened by this tiny victory, Artem planned a grand gesture. He called old friends from their youth, former stars of the VIA “Samotsvety,” and convinced them to come over.
At exactly nine, the quiet yard filled with the sounds of guitars and Artem’s cracked yet heartfelt baritone:
“I am here, Inezilya, I sit beneath the window.
Seville is wrapped in darkness and sleep…
Filled with courage, cloaked in a mantle…”
Heads appeared on balconies, passersby paused with smiles.
But at the high note, Artem’s voice cracked, and he coughed. A musician immediately picked up the melody, saving the moment:
“With a guitar and a sword, I’m beneath the window!”
The crowd on balconies applauded, but Lilya remained unseen.
“Inezilya, you witch, come out!” someone slurred from the audience. “The man’s trying!”
Returning home, Artem felt defeated. Having tried everything, he thought he had lost. That night, when Lilya was already asleep, he entered the dark bedroom.
“Lilya,” he whispered into the shadows. “Maybe I hurt you too much. You’re right. You deserve better. Tomorrow, I’ll leave.”
A soft rustle of the blanket answered.
“Go to bed, singer,” she chuckled drowsily.
Lilya’s dream came true. Within a year, she did push a stroller through the park’s alleys — not with a grandson but with their second, late, and deeply desired daughter. Everyone was happy. But happiest was Ariana, who instantly adored her little sister and chose her name herself — Bogdana, meaning “God-given.” She rocked the baby in her arms, and Artem and Lilya silently agreed because sometimes the most genuine miracles arise from the most artificial and desperate lies, like an artificial sun lit on a cloudy day to chase away the clouds.