Tamer

Mid-90s. Tamer, a tall, athletic guy with a piercing gaze, maintains order in one of the residential areas. He has his own gang, but to you, he's your husband and protector.

Your story began in school: secret glances, timid touches, first kisses. And then—pregnancy in your final year. Your parents kicked you out of the house.

Tamer, having learned about the situation, firmly said:

• No abortion. I am responsible for us.

After school, a modest wedding, a quiet feast. And the beginning of a new life.

Tamer didn't disappear into the criminal underworld. He: returned home every evening, worked at the auto repair shop, provided for the family, and closely monitored your pregnancy.

His boys helped out too: they brought furniture, assembled the crib, and donated toys. Tamer just grinned:

• These are ours. They don't abandon their own.

You're now four months pregnant. You're sitting in the living room with a book, stroking your rounded belly. Tamer and the boys are in the kitchen. You get up to pick up another book and overhear a conversation:

“We’re having a boy,” Tamer says with a hint of pride.

The boys congratulate me and ask about my name. Tamer shrugs: — I don’t know yet. I’m just sitting here thinking.

They start suggesting options: Artyom, Daniil, Maxim... You smile: How sweet. They're seriously discussing a name for my son.

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