After years of struggling with infertility, I believed that welcoming two beautiful baby girls into the world would be the start of a joyful new chapter for our family. I never imagined that instead of celebrating, my husband would walk away at the very moment we needed him the most.
The pregnancy had been far from easy—weeks of bed rest, sleepless nights, the constant fear of something going wrong. But when I finally held Masha and Sonya in my arms, none of that mattered anymore. Their tiny hands, their soft cries, their warm bodies nestled against me—it felt like perfection.
Then my husband walked into the hospital room. His face was unreadable, his expression distant. I waited for him to say something, to share in the happiness of this moment.
“Hello,” I whispered, hoping to see even the smallest flicker of joy in his eyes. “Look at them. Aren’t they miracles?”
He stepped closer, staring at the babies, his expression growing colder.
“What is this?” he muttered, his voice laced with something I couldn’t quite place.
I frowned, confused by his reaction. “These are our daughters. Masha and Sonya.”
“You knew I wanted a boy,” he suddenly snapped, his tone sharp and unforgiving. The words hit me so hard I nearly lost my grip on the tiny bundle in my arms.
I stared at him in disbelief. “Igor, they are our children. They are healthy and beautiful. Isn’t that what matters most?”
“No. They are not my children,” he said through clenched teeth, his voice low and bitter.
Tears welled up in my eyes. “What are you saying?”
“This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I expected,” he spat out, as if I had personally betrayed him.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
A sharp pain spread through my chest, drowning out the joy I had felt just moments before. I looked down at my daughters, their delicate faces peaceful against me, their tiny fingers wrapped around mine, as if they could sense my heartbreak.
He didn’t return the next day. Or the day after that. A week passed, then another. Through whispers and messages from mutual friends, I learned that he had left the country on vacation, as if nothing had happened.
His mother called me repeatedly, her voice filled with anger and blame. She accused me of ruining the family, of failing to give them a proper heir. Every word she spoke felt like a knife to my heart.
But as the days and nights passed—filled with late-night feedings, whispered lullabies, and the quiet comfort of holding my daughters close—I understood something. I had to be strong for them. They needed me, and I would never let them feel abandoned.
I reached out to a lawyer, filed for divorce, and fought for full custody. It wasn’t easy, but through the pain and betrayal, I found something greater than my heartbreak. I found my own strength.
Masha and Sonya would never lack love. I would make sure of that. I would give them enough for both parents, and one day, they would know that they were never the ones who were unwanted. The only one who had truly lost something was the man who walked away.