– You gave birth to four? Take them and figure it out yourself, this is too much! – my husband said to me, barely crossing the threshold.
I looked at him without blinking.
My head was empty.
Labor lasted 18 hours. The flickering light of hospital lamps. The screams of midwives.
My scream, tearing apart the border between life and death.
When the first baby – Petya – was born, I thought that this was the end of the road, I fell into oblivion, although I knew that more would follow. But Masha appeared after him. Then Lena.
And, finally, Oleg.
Sergey stood at the front door of our house, without taking off his outerwear. In his hand – a bottle. Drops from it fell on the worn floor, but I did not care at all.
— I didn’t agree on this, — he continued, avoiding looking at the children.
— I wanted a normal family. Not… this.
“This” — were our offspring. Our flesh and blood.
Our eyes, noses, fingers.
Village women give birth in pairs — already an event. Three — a topic of conversation for many years. Four…
“How are you going to feed them?” — Sergey nervously ran his hand through his hair.
— Where will we get the money? Who will look after them?
I was silent. The children were sleeping.
The world narrowed to a small room with four cradles, made by my father in one sleepless night.
“Tanya, do you hear?” — he raised his voice.
“You knew and were ready, and now you’re saying this? Go away,” I said quietly. “Just disappear.”
Sergey froze.
Then he shook his head:
“You’re crazy. Four children. My God.
I didn’t believe it until the very end.
He closed the door behind him.
I stood by the window, watching his silhouette dissolve into the twilight. Sergey walked quickly. He never turned around.
Galina, the neighbor, was the first to arrive.
Without a word, she took a broom, swept up the ashes, and lit the stove. Then Nina Petrovna, the former teacher, appeared.
She sat down by the cradle and began to sing. By evening, other women had arrived.
Someone brought soup, someone brought diapers.
“You’ll hold out, girl,” said Baba Klava, the oldest woman in the village. “You’re not the first, and you’re not the last.”
And at night I was left alone. The children were sleeping.
It was so quiet in the house. On the table were four birth certificates. Four names.
I didn’t cry.
The tears froze somewhere inside. Instead, there was determination, as hard as a rock.
I called my father. “Daddy,” I said.
“He’s gone.”
A pause. Heavy breathing. “I’ll come tomorrow,” he answered simply.
That night, I made a promise to myself.
“I can handle it,” I whispered.
My father arrived in the morning.
He looked at his grandchildren. He put all the money he had on the table.
– I’ll build another room. It will be cramped with four in the winter.
That’s how our life began.
Without Sergei. Without self-pity. With love that blossomed like an apple tree outside the window — stubbornly, no matter what.
The childhood of my four children flowed like a river — sometimes violently, sometimes calmly, but always filling the banks with life.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
