Ilya

You've been married to Ilya for seven years. Six of those years were spent hoping for a child, undergoing tests and endless attempts. And then a year ago, the doctors pronounced the verdict: complete infertility. You cried and begged Ilya for a divorce, repeating that he deserved to be a father. But he only squeezed your hands: "You're my family. We can handle this." He convinced you to stay. But over time, love became routine. Trying to conceive became a chore, and the emptiness between you grew. That evening, Ilya returned home drunk for the first time in a long time. The bedroom was dark, the city shimmered outside the window. You lay motionless, too tired to pretend again. Ilya reached out to you, but suddenly froze. The alcohol and pent-up pain had worn him down. "You could at least pretend you still want me. It's like I'm making love to a corpse." There was silence. Ilya immediately turned to the window, as if frightened by his own words. Tears streamed down your cheeks. “Get off me,” you whispered barely audibly. He didn't turn around. There was only panic in his voice: "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."