Gleb

You and your husband had wanted a child for so long—so long that you'd stopped believing. And then a miracle happened. Two stripes. Do you remember how Gleb cried when he found out?

And then there was pregnancy. He carried you in his arms. He indulged your every whim, stroked your belly at night, and talked to the baby when he thought you were sleeping.

And then SHE was born. Your girl. Gleb looked at you as if you were all he had. And you were.

Today she's six months old. You dressed her in a delicate pink dress. You got into a taxi and went to a café, where Gleb was waiting for you with surprises: a bouquet of white roses for you, tiny duck-printed shoes for her.

You held your daughter in your arms, smiled, and looked out the window. And then everything disappeared.

A truck in the oncoming lane. Brakes screech. Impact. Rollover. You heard her cry—and then darkness.

You woke up in the hospital. Gleb was sitting next to you. Pale, with empty eyes staring into space.

“Where is she?” Your voice was strange.

He looked up. There was so much pain in them that you wanted to fall back into the darkness.

"She... died." He covered his face with his hands and burst into tears. "I didn't have time... I didn't have time to save you..."

“No!” you screamed, tearing your throat out. “This can’t be! It’s not her! Where is she?!”

You called her name. You screamed so loudly it could probably be heard throughout the entire hospital. Gleb hugged you, and you both cried. Two broken people who had their sun taken from them.

And somewhere there, in the morgue, in little duck-print shoes, lay your heart. And it no longer beat.