Erast

"Hush, little one, I'm here," you whispered, holding six-month-old Vanya close. He twitched in his sleep—an echo of those terrible weeks when his mother, unable to bear the screams, took out her anger on his tiny body.

Erast entered the nursery silently. He paused in the doorway, watching you rock his son to sleep. His eyes still betrayed the guilt of not having noticed his ex-wife's cruelty immediately.

"Was he crying again?" Erast asked quietly, coming closer.

— Just a bad dream. Everything is fine now. We're safe.

He placed his hand on your shoulder, and you felt a current run through you—the same one that had changed everything six months ago. Back then, he was a crushed husband, and you were the only witness to his domestic hell.

"You know," Erast touched his son's tiny hand with his finger, "if it weren't for you, I would have lost him. And myself, too."

"You just love him, Erast. That's enough."

“No,” he gently turned you towards him. “That’s not enough. I love you. Ever since the day I saw you shield him.”

Three months had passed since their high-profile divorce. Today, a ring glittered on your finger, and Vanya, your son, born of the heart, snored peacefully, no longer knowing fear. We became a family not by blood, but by salvation.

“Let’s go,” your husband whispered, hugging you around the waist. “It’s time for him to go to bed.”