As dusk spread the shadow of the tall poplar across half of the Beketovs’ yard, a profound upheaval commenced—the gravest event in their sixteen years of marriage. The living room atmosphere, thick with cigarette haze and unspoken dread, seemed so dense it could be cut with a blade. Artyom Viktorovich, a man marked by hands veined darkly and eyes used to overseeing, pressed his temples in a vain attempt to drown out his growing anguish. Opposite him, his wife, Lilya, sat inwardly curled, nervously twisting the frayed edge of her old knitted cardigan. Her world, once orderly and pristine, was swiftly unraveling around her, and the source of this upheaval was seated between them, head bowed to avoid their gaze.
Their daughter. Ariana. The shy, withdrawn girl who carried the scent of baby cream and books—and now harbored a foreign, heavy secret.
The turmoil began with a seemingly minor incident: a routine school medical checkup. Ariana had flatly refused to see the gynecologist. The homeroom teacher, anxious and meticulous, called Lilya with vague hints about “odd and concerning behavior.” Foreseeing trouble, Lilya tried gently to engage her daughter over tea sweetened with raspberry jam. But Ariana remained silent, fixated on her cup, her knuckles whitening from gripping the spoon so tightly.
Finally, she revealed a folded slip from the private clinic named “Eden.” It wasn’t a mere certificate but more of a verdict: gestational age—ten weeks. The diagnosis seemed almost mocking: “Physiological intrauterine pregnancy.”
Having absorbed the note, Artyom Viktorovich slowly sank into an armchair, as though time itself had slowed, his pupils narrowing with intensity.
“Explain,” he demanded, his voice cracking like a rusty hinge in the wind, “Who is responsible?”
Ariana merely shook her head without lifting her gaze. Her long lashes cast delicate shadows over pale, almost translucent cheeks. It seemed she could vanish at any moment under the weight of their interrogation.
“It was my choice. He’s not involved,” she murmured, with a strength in her voice that Lilya had never before perceived.
“Protecting a scoundrel!” Artyom’s fist slammed the armrest, causing the crystal vase on the table to shiver. Reaching for his pack of Belomor cigarettes, he growled, “I’ll shatter him to pieces! Lock him away forever! Tell me his name now!”
“Artyom, stop! The smoke—it’s damaging!” Lilya instinctively grabbed the pack, voice trembling. She was already in defense mode—not of her daughter, but of the grandchild—a future yet unborn but already turned their lives upside down.
“And how did you miss this as her mother?” His furious, helpless eyes turned sharply toward Lilya. “Was it right under your nose? You always said she came home on time and didn’t roam about!”
“I’m sorry,” Lilya averted her eyes, guilt scorching her from within. “I never imagined. She was always our little girl…”
“So you won’t reveal his name?” Artyom pressed, looming over Ariana, his shadow engulfing her completely. “I will find out, all of it. And then he won’t know what hit him. I swear it.”
“Dad, please don’t,” came the surprisingly calm, almost distant plea.
“Then he can marry you! Support you and your…” He stumbled for the word. “Offspring!”
“Artyom!” Lilya exclaimed, nearly leaping. “She’s our daughter! That baby is our grandchild!”
“I don’t want to marry,” Ariana shook her head again. “At least, not yet.”
“That’s probably right, sweetheart,” Lilya muttered nervously, glancing at her husband. “Your father and I will handle everything. We’ll arrange things somehow… He’ll become like a son to us. Or even a daughter! Didn’t you want a little sister, Arisha?”
Artyom Viktorovich stared at Lilya as though seeing her anew, repulsed.
“Are you crazy, Lilya? Snap out of it!”
“Don’t, Mom,” Ariana lifted her gaze to her mother for the first time—their eyes vast, endless pools colored like a stormy sky. “I cannot lie to him forever. I can’t watch him call you Mom and Dad, and me… just a sister.”
Something in her eyes shrank Lilya’s soul. Something irreversible.
“Ariana, you’re still a child yourself!” tears finally streaming freely, Lilya cried. “School, college—all your life is ahead! A baby would bury those dreams! A lousy job, exhaustion, illnesses! And no decent man would marry you!”
“I don’t want a man!” Ariana abruptly pivoted toward the window and the setting sun.
- Lilya promised Ariana she would stay with her throughout the pregnancy.
- Artyom planned to investigate and find the father.
- The family faced internal strife and external pressures.
“You’ll have the baby at Aunt Sveta’s in Reutov,” Lilya continued, blinking tears and trying to steady herself. “She’ll see you into a good maternity hospital. It’ll be calm and quiet. For now, count on us.”
She shot a defiant glance at her husband, but he remained silent, staring at the smoke-choked ashtray.
When Ariana left briefly to buy bread, the heavy silence exploded into chaos. Artyom raged, blaming Lilya.
“You spoiled her! Raised her like a spoiled sorceress! This is your fault!”
“And what about you?” she fired back, retreating toward the sideboard. “Didn’t you carry her around like a princess? Don’t dump it all on me! Maybe if you were home more, this wouldn’t have happened!”
“And why do you even want this grandchild?” Artyom shouted, losing control. “You’re forty-two! You won’t cope! Your health, your back!”
“Thanks for reminding me of my age!” Lilya retorted, wounded. “Women my age are just starting their lives! Maybe I still hoped for my own child…”
Artyom froze mid-sentence with a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips.
“Really?” His voice softened unexpectedly. “Lilyush, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… difficult. And your back….”
“Leave me alone!” she spun away but burst out again when she heard a match strike: “And don’t smoke here! Take it to the stairwell!”
“Aye-aye!” he saluted comically, and she couldn’t help but smile faintly. She never stayed angry for long—her mercy was their saving grace.
Within days, the secret was no longer a secret. Ariana’s best friend, fidgety and redheaded Snezhana, couldn’t contain the explosive news. The entire school soon whispered that “Beketova’s pregnant.” Former subjects of teasing for Ariana’s shyness and slight weight gain, the bullying intensified wildly. Classmates mocked her openly, cracked vulgar jokes, and cruel pranksters left diapers and baby food in her locker. Worst of all, no one could even guess the father’s identity. Ariana didn’t socialize with boys or date; her supposed pregnancy was an illogical mystery.
Determined, Artyom arranged for Ariana’s transfer to homeschooling, citing “severe nervous exhaustion” as the reason. Behind the family’s back, he launched a private investigation, checking every local young man—from troublemaking neighbors to factory workers. He even considered hiring a private detective, but the ridiculous fee stopped him. Instead, he offered a reward for information, which sparked a deluge of claims and false leads.
Key Insight: Despite desperate efforts, all accusations lacked evidence; the supposed father remained impossible to identify.
Artyom’s phone buzzed nonstop with calls from desperate informers naming various suspects, including alleged sightings of Ariana with different men. Each story seemed less credible than the last. The pressure became overwhelming, taking a toll on him physically and mentally.
“I’ve never forgotten about you,” Artyom heard from Irina, a voice from his past that added to his torment.
He tried to avoid the distractions, focusing on his family’s crisis, but the complex entanglements of his past and present blurred boundaries.
At home, tensions ran high. Ariana’s feigned pregnancy had fractured trust among them all. Despite Artyom’s attempts to mend things—offering gifts and grand gestures—the effects lingered. One evening, as Artyom played old songs with friends beneath their window, hoping to rekindle warmth, no response came from Lilya. The facade of normality was fragile.
Later that night, in the darkened bedroom, Artyom confessed his regret to Lilya about his infidelity was finally exposed, offering a glimpse into deeper family wounds.
Lilya’s silence was heavy with pain, her refusal clear when she told him to leave. Yet, Artyom stood firm, determined to repair the family he nearly lost, confessing he had ended the affair for their sake.
Their wounds did not heal overnight, but a small smile from Lilya days later marked progress. Inspired, Artyom organized a lively reunion with old friends to inject joy back into their lives. Music filled the courtyard, neighbors smiled, but Lilya stayed away, still hurt and distant.
Finally, Artyom accepted responsibility, ready to leave, but Lilya’s teasing in the darkness revealed that a bond remained, fragile yet unbroken.
Less than a year afterward, the family rejoiced as Lilya pushed a pram through the park—but not with a grandchild, rather their eagerly awaited second child. Ariana’s love for her new sister was instant and heartfelt; she chose the name Bogdana, meaning “God-given,” holding the baby tenderly.
This journey revealed that sometimes, the deepest miracles emerge from the most desperate and fabricated beginnings—like an artificial sun breaking through a gray sky to restore hope.
In summary, the Beketov family’s ordeal underscores the complexities of trust, love, and forgiveness. Their story is a profound reminder that even amidst turmoil, the bonds of family can foster healing and unexpected joy.