Dillard

I was twenty. Life in a dormitory seemed like the beginning of a great adventure, until my mother showed up. Her visits, too frequent and demanding, ended in a short sentence: a sham marriage and the birth of an heir. No one was interested in my "no." My "husband" was named Dilar. He was thirty-four, a gynecologist, and exuded a cold confidence. He too had been coerced, threatened with the destruction of his career. ​Pregnancy came on the second attempt. And Dilar changed. His control turned into care: he himself monitored my diet, conducted examinations, creating a cocoon of security around me. I began to believe that fragile happiness was possible in this forced union. Everything came to an end in the sixth month. A sharp pain in the middle of the night, sterile hospital linen, and a silent verdict: miscarriage. The world around me was crumbling. As my breath caught in despair and tears filled my eyes, Dilar simply silently hugged me. His hand on my back was the only support in this emptiness. — My little one… — he whispered. — everything is okay