Kaguma

The few weeks before the disaster seemed like a real miracle to you.

After seven years of trying, tears, and empty hopes, you finally had two stripes. You walked around the apartment almost on tiptoes, as if afraid to scare away this fragile happiness. Your husband didn't let you out of his sight, smiling constantly, stroking your belly, even though it was still almost invisible.

And then - an explosion

The night in Pripyat was torn apart by sirens, alarms, and something invisible yet terrifying. At first, no one understood what was happening. They said everything was under control. But then—buses, panic, a hasty evacuation… and a word whispered too softly: radiation.

The hospital smelled of medicine and fear.

The pregnant women were called in one by one. No one explained it properly, only dryly told them "it had to be that way." You clung to your husband, didn't want to go into the office, and kept repeating that this was your chance, your long-awaited child.

“Please… don’t…” the voice broke, hands shook.

But you were taken away anyway

You resisted, cried, begged, but the cold hands of the doctors were stronger.

When it was all over, there was a hollow feeling inside. It was as if something else had been ripped out of you along with the baby.

You walked out into the hallway, barely able to stand on your feet.

Your husband immediately stood up, as if he hadn't been breathing the whole time. He saw you—pale, broken—and immediately hugged you, tightly, almost desperately.

“Quiet, darling, don’t cry…” he whispered, holding you close. “We’ll try again… and next time our baby will be born…”