The baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, slept peacefully in Yulia’s arms, occasionally scrunching his tiny nose in his sleep. A nurse offered to walk her to the exit, but Yulia declined, even though she still felt weak after giving birth.
“I’m fine, I can manage on my own,” she murmured, holding her son closer and reaching for her phone in her pocket.
For five long days, she had waited to be discharged from the hospital, imagining how Artyom would greet their child. She had dreamed of the moment he would scoop her up in his arms, filled with love and joy.
Carefully pulling out her phone without disturbing her son, she saw a message from her husband. “I’m on my way. Don’t leave without me.” Her lips curled into a smile. Artyom always loved surprises—maybe he had planned something special for today.
The tiny bundle stirred in her arms, smacking his lips in his sleep. Yulia gently pulled back the fabric to gaze at his delicate face. Nikita. The miracle they had longed for, the baby they had been waiting for after almost seven years of trying. Seven years of marriage, of hope and disappointment, had finally led to this moment.
“Daddy’s coming soon, my little one,” she whispered, adjusting the edge of the blanket.
Her phone vibrated again.
“There’s been a change of plans. I need you to take a DNA test first. Otherwise, there’s no point in meeting.”
Yulia read the message over and over, trying to grasp its meaning. The words blurred before her eyes, mocking her hopes.
“Artyom? Are you joking?” she whispered hoarsely into the empty hallway.
Her phone rang, his name lighting up the screen. With trembling fingers, she answered.
“What does this mean?” Her voice was sharper than usual.
“Yulia, let’s not be dramatic, okay?” Artyom’s voice was calm, as if they were discussing groceries. “You understand, I need to be sure.”
“Sure of what?” The emptiness inside her deepened. The baby, sensing her distress, squirmed and began to cry.
“That this child is really mine,” he said patiently. “We tried for so many years, and then suddenly… you understand.”
“You can’t be serious.” Her voice shook with anger. “Come pick us up, we just left the hospital. He’s your son, for God’s sake!”
“You know where you can shove your paranoia?” she hissed through clenched teeth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “My mom will come for us. I never want to see you again.”
“Yulia, don’t be irrational,” he said in the same unsettlingly calm tone. “Think carefully.”
She hung up.
Nikita was now wailing loudly, his tiny face red with distress.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she murmured, rocking him gently and wiping away her tears.
With shaking hands, she dialed her mother’s number.
“Mom, please come get us,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “Artyom… he’s not coming.”
How could she explain what had just happened? How could she even make sense of it herself—her husband demanding a DNA test?
Twenty minutes later, a familiar car pulled up outside the hospital. Elena Sergeyevna stepped out, holding a bunch of blue balloons.
“Where’s Artyom?” she asked immediately, glancing behind her daughter.
Yulia simply shook her head, clutching her now-calmer son against her chest.
“I’ll explain later, Mom. Let’s just go home.”
Without looking back at the building where she had once been the happiest woman in the world, Yulia got into the car beside her mother.
Her phone vibrated again. Absentmindedly, she glanced at the screen.
“Think carefully, Yulia. This is important for all of us. And by the way, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She turned off her phone. She wanted nothing more to do with any of it.
That evening, Nikita finally fell asleep in the old crib her grandmother had pulled down from storage. Yulia sat in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of mint tea, staring blankly at the message still haunting her mind.
“Seven years, Mom,” she whispered, looking at the faded wallpaper. “Seven years of treatments, of hope, of believing. The doctors said the problem was with him. And now this.”
Elena Sergeyevna sighed. “Maybe he just panicked? Men do that sometimes. They want a child, but when it happens, they don’t know how to handle it.”
“A DNA test, Mom! He’s demanding a DNA test! As if I cheated on him. What does that have to do with responsibility?”
Yulia buried her face in her hands, and the tears she had been holding back all day finally broke free.
Memories from the previous year resurfaced. She had come home after another visit to the doctor.
The elderly doctor had stroked his thinning beard for a long time before speaking.
“Theoretically, there is a chance,” he had said. “But your husband will need treatment. At this stage, the likelihood of conception is extremely low. You may want to consider other options.”
She had sat in her car and cried, unable to face the thought of telling Artyom that their six years of trying had meant almost nothing. Almost, because there was still that tiny chance.
When she finally told him, his reaction had surprised her. He had simply taken her hand and said, “We’ll find a way, Yulia. If we need to, we’ll do IVF. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll adopt.”
She had loved him even more in that moment. Despite the struggles, the arguments, and the disappointments, he had always been her rock.
And now, the message about a DNA test seemed unthinkable. How? Why? Where had this come from?
“You didn’t consider… other options, did you?” Elena Sergeyevna asked hesitantly.
“Mom!” Yulia snapped, looking up with fiery eyes. “What other options? This is our child! We just… tried, and it happened. A miracle, do you understand? And he…”
More tears spilled down her face, no matter how hard she tried to hold them back. Elena Sergeyevna sighed and pulled her daughter into a tight embrace.
“Maybe men just react this way to big changes. Talk to him. Explain everything. He’ll understand.”
Yulia shook her head. She thought back to the last few months of her pregnancy. Artyom had been excited about the baby, but there had been something forced about it. He had done everything expected of him—attended doctor’s appointments, picked out baby clothes, helped set up the nursery—but his joy had seemed… calculated.
She remembered his odd questions, the ones she had brushed off as normal nervousness.
“You didn’t stay late at Sergey’s office party, did you? You said you were working late…?”
“Why is Petya from accounting on your friends list?”
Little things she hadn’t thought twice about suddenly took on new meaning. Had they planted the seed of doubt in his mind?
Her phone, which she had turned back on, vibrated again. Another message from Artyom. “Yulia, where are you? Is everything okay?”
She put the phone aside. A conversation with him was inevitable, but she needed time to collect her thoughts.
On the third morning at her mother’s house, she woke to bright sunlight and Nikita’s cries. Ignoring the dull ache in her body, she lifted him into her arms.
“Shh, little one,” she murmured, rocking him gently. Then the doorbell rang.
Elena Sergeyevna, already dressed to go out, glanced toward the hallway.
“I’ll get it. You’re busy,” she said, disappearing around the corner.
Yulia tensed when she heard Artyom’s voice. He sounded impatient.
“Hello, Elena Sergeyevna. Is Yulia home?”
“She is, but she’s feeding Nikita. You’ll have to wait.”
“Of course. I’ll wait,” he said, his tone unreadable.
A few minutes later, when Nikita had fallen asleep, Yulia handed him to her mother and walked to the living room. Artyom stood by the window, fidgeting with his keys. When he saw her, he froze.
“Yulia,” he began, stepping closer. “Why haven’t you answered my calls? I was worried.”
She folded her arms, creating a barrier between them.
“Are you sure you wanted to talk to me? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just wait until the DNA test confirmed your suspicions?”