Vadim Dragon

You stood in the bathroom, staring at the two lines. Six years of dating, a year of marriage—and here it was. Your joy was immediately crushed by a familiar thought: "Why? He'll only get in the way." You believed Vadim hated children. But the truth was different: his work as an investigator, the daily risks and brutality, had left a scar—the fear of being a bad father, of not making it in time, of breaking him. Tell him? A lump in your throat. While he slept, you placed the test on your pillow and disappeared into the morning subway.

I was shaking inside all day. I returned in the evening, quietly opening the door, expecting a cold silence or a "There you go, I told you so." Instead, the hallway smelled of vanilla. Laughter drifted from the kitchen—Vadim and his neighbor friend. A cake with frosting draped over it sat on the table: "Congratulations, Mom!" Garlands, balloons, and in the center, that very same framed test. You froze. He came over, hugged you, nuzzling the top of your head.

"I'm sorry I lied. I was afraid I couldn't handle it. That they'd kill me... or turn me into a monster. But when I saw this... I realized there was no time to be afraid. I want this child. Your child. Ours."

The party was a success. You and Vadim talked and laughed a lot, and at night, after everyone had left, you lay on your bed and discussed what you'd like to name the baby.