I spent three weeks under Ana’s watchful care in our parents’ riverside cabin, a place we often visited in childhood. She took care of me as though I were ill, never leaving my side. I couldn’t find a moment alone to carry out what I had planned. It was as though Ana either sensed something or just guessed, but she constantly looked at me with caution. It seemed like even when she went to the bathroom, she did it faster, as if to prevent me from having a minute to myself. She had made an appointment with a psychologist, thinking it might somehow help. Five sessions had already passed, but I hadn’t said a word. I wasn’t interested in talking, and I didn’t want to discuss my thoughts with anyone. I had only one clear goal.


    I had no strength to sort through this situation, let alone try to escape from the mess I had gotten myself into. The only thing that occasionally made me doubt my determination was Ana. Despite her apparent indifference, I still loved her and feared leaving her alone. I worried she wouldn’t cope without me, but even that wasn’t a strong enough motivation for me to find the strength to fight.


    Perhaps I agreed to the sessions with the psychologist only because of that tiny spark of hope she gave me. But overcoming myself and doing more was something I couldn’t manage just yet.


    The psychologist kept asking me questions, telling me things, but her voice was like radio static—meaningless noise. I was bored. I thought about neither her nor myself. I simply stared out the window, watching the wind sway the trees and scatter the leaves, which had started falling prematurely. On sunny days, I somehow felt worse than on rainy ones. On overcast days, I could hear the howling of the wind, feel the chill of the dampness slowly spreading through my body, and that at least stirred something within me, reminding me that I was still alive. Sometimes, when I went to the river, I would keep my feet in the cold water for a long time, hoping to feel something. I thought that if the skin started to sting from the cramps or numbness, I might feel relief, but it was all in vain.


    In childhood, my sisters and I used to play for hours in the cold river water, and then we’d listen to our mom’s lamentations about how our skin had turned blue, warning us that if we kept being so careless, our limbs would eventually fall off. We were too happy and engrossed in play to notice the sharp pain or frostbite in our skin. But now, I didn’t feel anything for a different reason. The emptiness gradually invaded my consciousness, relentlessly replacing the nightmares that tore at my sleep. Perhaps my body was deliberately numbing all sensations, afraid of the worst one—pain. I wasn’t ready for the force with which it could strike me, so I just stared at the water, hoping that one day, when I stepped into it, I wouldn’t step out again.


    Several times, I saw Ana quietly crying as she watched me, but she said nothing. With each passing day, the faith in her eyes that everything would get better melted away, leaving only the pain of the past we once had and so carelessly lost. I wanted to give her hope, but I couldn’t—there was none left in me. I was only searching for salvation in release.


    The sixth session with the psychologist seemed to start as usual. She studied me and asked questions about my well-being and other trivial matters. I was waiting for the moment when she would give up, lose her composure, and abandon this endeavor. But, it seemed she wasn’t going to surrender: after about five minutes, she stopped talking to me and simply stared at me for the rest of the session. I threw questioning glances at her, trying to understand what she was trying to achieve, but she continued to stubbornly remain silent. About fifteen minutes into her intense gaze, I suddenly felt something unfamiliar—something I hadn’t felt in the past three weeks. Irritation started to boil inside me. I began to get angry at her, even though deep down I knew she was not to blame. Unable to take it anymore, I stared back at her and noticed how she smirked. That was the last straw.


    “Are you laughing at me?” I hadn’t expected to speak aloud, and I flinched, startled by my own voice, which I hadn’t heard in over three weeks.


    “Yes!”


    “And what’s so funny about me?” I quickly gathered myself, glaring at her with resentment growing inside me. It felt like I was finally experiencing some emotion after such a long time.


    “Everything!” she answered with a sly smile.


    “Do you expect me to pull the words out of you?” My anger flared even more, and I gritted my teeth.


    “You haven’t said a word in the last three weeks.”


    “Well, I’m saying something now!”


    “I hear that.”


    “Mmm, I know what you’re trying to do.”


    “And what’s that?”


    “You’re trying to make me angry.”


    “Why would I do that?”


    “To provoke an emotion! I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed—nothing will come of it,” at that moment, I felt like a small, vengeful child.


    “I wouldn’t be so sure. Right now, you’re talking to me, so I can’t be that bad.”


    “Go to hell!”


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    “I’d even say it’s surprising how good I am!” She wasn’t offended; on the contrary, she smiled even wider.


    “You’re funny,” I spat with all the bitterness I could muster, stood up, and left the room.


    Three more weeks passed, and our meetings with Nicole became twice a week. The anger slowly gave way to other emotions. It hurt. No, not just hurt—this was unbearable pain!


    Wednesday morning began like all the last days of October. The weather outside was cool, and Ana, in slippers and a warm pajama, was preparing syrniki (Russian pancakes) for us, while I flipped through TV channels. Everywhere, they were talking about the approaching winter and preparations for the holidays.


    “Breakfast is ready.”


    “Coming.”


    “Coffee or tea?” Ana asked when I walked into the kitchen. A strange odor hit my nose.


    “Better coffee. What’s that smell?” I stared at Ana.


    “I don’t smell anything,” my sister shrugged.


    “It smells like something’s gone sour or spoiled,” I started sniffing everything on the table. I brought the yogurt to my nose, and nausea immediately surged in my throat. I rushed to the bathroom, feeling as though something had gone rotten inside me.


    “Are you okay?” Ana came into the bathroom.


    “I don’t know. I guess the chicken from last night wasn’t fresh after all,” I suggested, starting to laugh, though I felt terrible.


    “God, I told you not to eat it,” Ana didn’t finish her sentence before I threw up again.


    “Let me go get some pills.”


    “Yeah, that would be great,” I nodded, pulling away from the toilet.


    The entire day was awful, I kept feeling nauseous. I don’t know what was wrong with that chicken, but clearly, something was really off.


    “I know it’s probably nothing serious, but maybe we should go to the doctor? You’ve been nauseous all day, and it’s obviously not over yet. You look pale and can’t eat anything,” Ana said. I started shaking my head in disagreement, but the movement made me feel even more nauseous, and I barely held back another wave of vomiting.


    “Fine, let’s go.”


    We made it to the hospital in twenty minutes. The doctor examined me and ordered tests. I sat for half an hour, staring at posters on the wall about the importance of annual checkups. Ana quietly slipped in through the slightly ajar door.


    “Why is it taking so long?” my sister asked, her eyes fixed on me, her tone wary.


    “We’re waiting for the test results,” I reply, trying to calm her down.


    “What did the doctor say? Is it something serious?”


    “No, it’s most likely just food poisoning. He’ll be able to confirm that after the test results.”


    The door slowly opens, and the doctor steps in, holding a few papers and a cup of coffee. A broad, reassuring smile is on his face.


    “Doctor, is everything okay?” Ana asks anxiously, her voice trembling with worry.


    “More than okay!” the young man replies cheerfully. We both exhale in relief, but a lingering sense of unease still gnaws at me.


    “So what’s the cause? Why am I still feeling so bad?”


    “The cause is actually something a bit different. You’re pregnant,” the doctor says without hesitation. I freeze, unable to believe my ears.


    “What?” Ana screams, her face twisting in shock.


    “Yes, it’s just morning sickness. And the good news is, it’ll pass soon,” the doctor continues with a smile, sipping his coffee.


    One night, one first sexual encounter, and here I am, pregnant. Ana, unable to handle the shock, rushes out of the room, slamming the door behind her. I hear her sobs growing louder outside.


    “Your sister has quite a strange reaction. Are you okay? Was this planned or a happy accident?”


    “Um… yeah, it’s a happy accident,” I whisper, gently placing my hand on my stomach. How is this possible? There’s a little person growing inside me, and I can’t comprehend that it’s real. Emotions overwhelm me, and I’m lost in thought about how quickly and unexpectedly my life has changed. Should I hate this? Why, then, do I already feel like I love this little being more than anything, despite all the uncertainty and fear consuming me?


    I continued to sit silently, staring at my stomach. About ten minutes later, Ana, having gathered her thoughts, returns to the doctor’s office. Our eyes meet, and her eyebrows instantly shoot up in surprise. She looks at me with clear concern, bewildered by my reaction and what she’s just seen. It seems she expected something else.


    “Are you okay?” she asks in a barely audible voice.


    “More than okay,” I reply quickly.


    The doctor, gesturing towards my stomach, says:


    “You can go now. I’ll prescribe you some medication for the morning sickness. Overall, just rest more, take good care of yourself, and try to eat well. Now, you have to look after not only yourself but also the baby.”


    “Got it, thank you,” I respond quietly.


    The drive home was in complete silence. Ana stared ahead, not daring to turn to me or ask anything. I was lost in thoughts about my feelings for the baby and how I was going to handle this.


    The first thing I thought when I heard the news was a deep fear and doubt—whether I’d be able to love this child. I feared that my past mistakes and the dark circumstances that had consumed me would haunt him.


    The only reasonable thought seemed to be to get rid of it, but the moment I allowed it, I felt everything inside me reject the idea. Soon, a thought struck me that turned my world upside down. I didn’t yet know who it was—he or she—but I already loved him so much. This baby isn’t anyone else’s; he’s mine and only mine, and he’s not at fault. He’s the purest and most innocent being imaginable.


    Even though everything happened differently than I had planned, I won’t abandon him, and I won’t give up on him. He’s part of me, my most beloved part, and maybe he’s the one who will help me step out of the darkness and into the light. I’ll try to give him all the love I have left and make him the happiest child in the world, because he deserves it.


    When we got home, Ana didn’t say a word about what had happened. Maybe she just didn’t know what to say, and I was too absorbed in my own thoughts.


    A month passed. Ana accepted my decision to keep the baby and supported me, promising to love him as much as she loved me and to become the best aunt in the world.


    It seemed like life was starting to settle down, though calling it “normal” would have been too bold. I accepted the reality I had chosen to face by keeping the baby. However, there was one problem that wouldn’t let me rest. It was getting harder and harder to stay in this city. I realized we couldn’t live forever in the little house by the river. Sooner or later, someone might come looking for us, and I couldn’t go back to the city. I had to think not only about myself. There were now two of us: me and my baby. I knew Ana would hardly agree to let me go, and it wouldn’t be fair to her, but I couldn’t keep going like this. I needed to leave and try to build a new life for us.


    One beautiful sunny morning, while Ana went out to buy groceries, I made the decision that I couldn’t wait any longer. Quickly gathering a few belongings and some money for the time being, until I found a job, I wrote a letter to Ana, left it on the kitchen counter, and, without looking back, left.


    “I’m sorry, but I need to leave. Thank you for being with me through the tough times. You’re my ray of light in this seemingly hopeless world. I hope you’ll understand. For the baby’s sake, I need to start over, in a place where nothing reminds me of what happened. I want to give myself a second chance. Someday, I’ll return, but for now, it’s just too difficult. I love you so much.”


    I hoped she would forgive me and find the strength to understand and accept my decision. I was sure Ana would be okay, because she’s so strong. The baby and I would manage, because now we have each other.