Бесплатный фрагмент - Sex after children

Kristin Evans Sex after children

Chapter 1: The Silence After the Storm

The air in the bedroom was warm and sweet, smelling of baby powder and milk. Sunbeams pierced through a gap in the curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the thick, cozy heaviness. They swirled like tiny fairies, lighting the edge of the cradle where Sofia slept.

Anna stood on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe, watching her daughter. In these moments, the world shrank to the size of this room, to the steady, serene breathing of the infant, and an immense, all-consuming flower of love bloomed in her chest. It felt like this was it: real, the only possible happiness. Perfect and fragile, like a bird-of-paradise egg.

Six weeks. Just six weeks ago, her life had split into “before” and “after,” and a new, dazzling light had poured through the crack. A light named Sofia.

“Asleep?” Alex’s quiet, caring voice sounded right by her ear. He had approached soundlessly, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close, resting his chin on the top of her head. His breath tickled her hair, and his familiar, beloved scent — a light cologne mixed with the clean smell of his cotton shirt — sent a wave of nostalgic tenderness through her. This was how he always was — strong, reliable, hers.

“Asleep,” Anna whispered, afraid to break the silence. She closed her eyes, dissolving into the moment: his embrace, their sleeping daughter, the sunlight. An idyll. A picture from a glossy motherhood magazine. “Happy young family.”

They stood like that for several minutes, merged into one, listening to the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece — a gift from her mother, old-fashioned and cozy. Alex kissed her temple; his lips were warm and soft.

“She’s beautiful,” he said, and his voice held reverence. “Absolutely beautiful. And so are you.”

His hand slid from her waist a little lower, his palm resting on her stomach, still soft and unfamiliar to her after childbirth. The touch was gentle, loving, but Anna involuntarily tensed. Her body, still recovering from the colossal effort and upheaval, responded not with a thrill but with a vague, barely perceptible anxiety. It seemed to say: “I’m not mine yet. I belong to her. I need rest.”

“Thank you,” she replied softly, covering his hand with hers, trying to mask her reaction as returned affection.

Alex seemed not to notice anything. He looked at their sleeping daughter once more and gently turned Anna to face him.

“Shall we go to the living room? I poured you some tea. Chamomile. You said it helps.”

She nodded, allowing him to lead her by the hand like a blind person. The living room was in the cozy chaos of new motherhood: a stack of clean folded diapers lay on the sofa, her huge mug with a leaky bottom stood on the coffee table, next to a discarded giraffe rattle. Alex sat her down on the sofa, tucked a blanket around her as if she were a fragile porcelain doll, and handed her the cup. Steam tickled her nose; it smelled of chamomile and honey.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, sitting down next to her and looking at her intently. His eyes, so clear and beloved, showed only concern.

“Tired,” Anna admitted honestly, taking a sip of the hot tea. “She didn’t sleep well today. Was fussy.”

“I know. I heard. You’re a heroine. The best mom in the world.”

He was saying the right words, the very ones she was supposed to want to hear. “Best mom.” But somehow, that phrase echoed inside her with a strange emptiness. She was Anya. Just Anya. Alex’s wife. And now — Sofia’s mom. But where was that Anna who used to laugh uproariously, race out of town with him on his motorcycle, and fall asleep in his arms after a passionate, long night? That woman whose body was an instrument of pleasure, not a milk factory and a rocking apparatus?

She pushed these thoughts away, feeling ungrateful and almost like a traitor. Of course, she was happy. It was just fatigue. Hormones. It happens to everyone.

“Thank you,” she said again, already automatically. “How was work? That project, with the kinetic sculptures for the park, how’s it going?”

She saw the familiar excitement flare in his eyes. He loved his work as an architect and could talk about it for hours. And Anna used to love listening, asking questions, getting inspired by his ideas. Now, she caught herself only following the intonation of his voice, the movement of his lips, while the actual words reached her as if through cotton wool. Her brain was too busy compiling an endless to-do list: sterilize the bottles, check the diapers, don’t forget to make a pediatrician appointment…

"...and the municipal council, can you believe it, is dragging its feet with approval again!” he finished, sighing. Then he smiled. “But it doesn’t matter. Right now, only you and she matter.”

He hugged her, pulling her close. Anna pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. She used to fall asleep to that rhythm. Now it was the most reliable and beloved sound in the world.

But today, something was off.

His hand lay on her shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the skin near her collarbone. The movement was affectionate, familiar. But instead of responding warmth, Anna felt a growing heaviness. Awkwardness. His touch, which had always been both longed-for and comforting and exciting, now demanded something from her. Some kind of response. Energy she didn’t have. An emotion she couldn’t dredge up from the depleted reserves of her soul.

She froze, trying to breathe evenly, pretending to be relaxed. Inside, everything was clenching into a knot of foreboding.

Alex leaned in and kissed her neck, just below her earlobe. His kiss was warm, moist, full of tenderness and a hint of something more. It held the memory of a thousand other such kisses that had ended in laughter, tangled sheets, and blissful exhaustion.

Anna’s body responded instantly and unambiguously. Not with a shiver, not with a wave of desire. With a cold, clammy wave of panic. Everything inside contracted, shriveled, trying to become smaller, less noticeable. Thoughts raced: “No. Not now. I can’t. I’m tired. Everything hurts. He’s waiting. He wants me. And I… I don’t want to. I don’t want anything except sleep. I can’t give him this. Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?”

She didn’t push him away. She couldn’t. That would be too cruel, too direct a rejection. Instead, she did what had become her automatic defense over the past few weeks. She feigned an exaggerated, sweet yawn and snuggled closer to him, as if seeking comfort, not passion.

“Oh, sorry,” she whispered, pretending her eyes were closing on their own. “I think I’m fading. This chamomile really knocks me out.”

She felt his body freeze for a moment. The hand on her shoulder stopped moving. He pulled back just a centimeter, but the distance felt like an abyss. He looked at her, and in his eyes, she saw a flash of disappointment, immediately carefully hidden behind a mask of understanding.

“Of course, forgive me, silly,” he said, and his voice sounded slightly huskier than usual. He stroked her hair, now paternally, friendly. “Go to sleep, sunshine. I’ll stay up a bit longer, get some work done.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not a bit. Sleep.”

He kissed her forehead. A long, tender, final kiss. A kiss that put a period. Not on their love. On the possibility of anything else happening that evening.

Anna rose from the sofa, feeling both guilty and incredibly relieved. She had dodged a storm she herself had invited. She had avoided a test for which she was completely unprepared.

“Goodnight, Alex.”

“Goodnight, Anechka. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She quickly walked to the bedroom, to Sofia. The girl was snoring softly in her sleep, her tiny fists clenched. Anna sat in the nursing chair next to the cradle, not turning on the light, and just watched her. It was safe here. Everything was simple and clear. Love. Feed. Protect. Ask for nothing in return but a smile.

Half an hour later, she heard Alex carefully enter the bedroom, go to the bathroom, and wash up. Then he lay down on his side of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sighed heavily, once, and fell still.

Anna waited. Waited for his breathing to become even and deep. Only then did she dare get up and lie down beside him. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, where reflections from streetlights played. A full meter of empty space lay between them. They used to fall asleep with their legs and arms entwined. Now each was on their own island.

She turned on her side, her back to him, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. A lump formed in her throat. Betraying tears burned her eyelids. She curled up in the darkness, trying to make herself very, very small, hoping this gnawing guilt wouldn’t notice her and devour her alive.

He waited, hammered in her temples. He wanted you. And you… you deceived him. You pretended to be asleep. You rejected him. You’re a bad wife.

And then, through the fatigue and self-flagellation, broke another, terrifyingly honest thought that made her feel even colder:

But I wasn’t pretending. My body… it genuinely doesn’t want him. It doesn’t want anything. It just wants to be left alone.

And that simple, physiological, unbearably bitter fact hung in the sweet, milky air of the room where her child and her husband slept. The first crack. Shallow, almost invisible. But Anna already felt the cold wind of future storms creeping through it straight to her heart.

She closed her eyes and waited for morning.

Chapter 2: The First Crack

The weeks flowed slowly and quickly at the same time, merging into a series of endless feedings, diaper changes, and short, anxious breaks for sleep. Each day was like the last, measured not by hours but by the rhythm of their daughter’s life. Anna immersed herself in this rhythm headlong, letting it lull her anxiety and blur the lines between “once upon a time” and “now.”

Alex tried to help. He got up at night to bring Sofia to her for feeding, washed bottles, walked with the stroller in the park, proudly returning the smiles of random passersby. He was the perfect father. The kind she read about in books and that her girlfriends envied. And Anna caught herself watching him from the side with almost maternal tenderness and pride. “What a great guy I have.” But it was a mother’s pride, not a wife’s. The wife in her was silent, hiding somewhere deep under layers of fatigue and new, unfamiliar roles.

One evening, a rare opportunity arose. Sofia, fed and lulled to sleep, drifted into a deep, predictable slumber that, by all the laws of the genre, should last at least a couple of hours. An unusual silence fell over the apartment. Even the old clock on the mantel seemed to have stopped its steady ticking to avoid disturbing the fragile peace.

Alex caught her eye. He was sitting opposite her on the sofa, having set aside his tablet with work blueprints.

“Finally,” he exhaled with a smile that held weariness, relief, and something else. Something that made Anna’s heart lurch. “Seems we have a little time just for us.”

“Yes,” she agreed, trying to infuse her voice with the same joy. “A whole two hours, if we’re lucky.”

“What shall we do?” His gaze swept over her, warm, interested. It was the way he used to look at her before the baby was born, and it usually promised something very pleasant.

Anna felt goosebumps run down her spine. Not from anticipation. From fear.

“I don’t know. Maybe watch a movie? Or just talk?”

“Movie sounds great,” he agreed easily but didn’t move. He looked at her, and impatience swirled in his eyes, long-restrained and now ready to spill out. “But first, I just want to sit with you. Like this. Without anything else.”

He moved to sit next to her, and the sofa dipped. His thigh touched hers. That simple touch sent a dry, cold lightning bolt through Anna’s body. She froze like a rabbit in headlights.

Alex put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. She let her head fall onto his chest, again pretending to seek comfort, not passion. She inhaled his scent, trying to ignite even a spark of that old, wild feeling that used to flare up between them at the slightest breath. But her body was silent. Deaf and mute as a stone.

“I’ve missed you so much, Anechka,” he whispered, and his lips touched her temple. “I think I’ve forgotten what your skin smells like right here, on your neck.”

His fingers carefully moved a strand of hair aside, and he pressed his lips to that spot he knew so well. His kiss was hot, moist, insistent. There was nothing rough about it, only long waiting and longing. But Anna flinched as if struck. Her nervous system, worn out by sleep deprivation and constant anxiety, reacted to the caress as an invasion.

He felt her tension.

“What is it?” he asked quietly, not letting her go.

“Nothing. It’s fine,” she tried to relax, take a deep breath, but her muscles wouldn’t obey.

“Does it feel unpleasant?” A note of confusion, almost hurt, sounded in his voice.

“No! No, of course not,” she babbled, trying to drown out the panic. “It’s just… I’m all wrapped up in tasks, in worries. My head is spinning. It’s hard to switch gears.”

He pulled back to look at her face. His eyes searched for the truth in hers.

“I understand. But let’s try. Let’s just forget about everything in the world. At least for a little while.”

His hand slid under her loose, unfashionable home T-shirt — the one in which she felt protected and invisible. His palm, warm and broad, rested on her bare back. Once, his touch had made her skin burn. Now she only felt a foreign, overly heavy hand. A hand that demanded a response from her that she didn’t have.

He leaned in to kiss her on the lips. A real, long, deep kiss. The kiss of a husband in love who wants his wife.

And then something in Anna snapped. Her body reacted before her mind did. She jerked her head away sharply, almost convulsively. His lips only brushed her cheek.

A tomblike silence hung in the room. Even outside the window, all sounds seemed to have died down. Alex froze. He didn’t pull his hand back, but it lay motionless and heavy on her back. Anna watched as slowly, as if in slow motion, the expression on his face changed. The tenderness and impatience in his eyes faded, replaced first by complete bewilderment, then by a heart-wrenching, offensive clarity.

He removed his hand. Slowly, as if afraid to disturb the silence even more.

“Anna?” he said quietly, and that one word held a whole universe of questions, pain, and misunderstood despair.

She didn’t look at him. She stared into the space in front of her, at the wall where their old photograph hung — they were laughing, tanned, with wind in their hair, against a sea backdrop. That Anna looked back at her with challenge and surprise: “What happened to you?”

“Sorry,” she breathed out, and her voice sounded hoarse and alien. “I… I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You can’t?” he repeated, and now his voice held notes of something hard, cold. Not anger yet. More like icy astonishment. “What do you mean, ‘can’t’? Am I repulsive to you?”

The question hit like a whip crack. Direct, crude, ripped from the depths of his male pride.

“No!” she exclaimed, finally turning to him. She saw his face — younger-looking from pain, with tightly pressed lips and eyes swirling with real despair. “Alex, no, never! How can you think that?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” His voice rose to a shout, and he immediately checked himself, throwing a glance toward the bedroom door. He lowered his voice to a whisper, but that made his words even sharper, more venomous. “I try to touch my wife, and she recoils from me like I’m a leper! You haven’t let me kiss you for weeks! You sleep turned toward the wall, and you flinch when I just put my hand on you! What should I think, Anna? Tell me!”

She looked at him, and the tears finally burst forth uncontrollably, bitter and unrestrained. They streamed down her cheeks and dripped onto her hands, clenched into fists.

“I don’t know…” she sobbed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I just can’t! My body… it’s not mine! It doesn’t want to! It’s tired! It belongs to her all the time! I feel like if you touch me, I’ll shatter into a thousand pieces because inside I’m just one big, open wound!”

She spoke incoherently, almost hysterically, spitting out words that had been accumulating for weeks, words that had no name or explanation. She waited for him to understand. To hug her. To say: “It’s okay, I’m with you, we’ll get through this together.”

But Alex sat back against the sofa cushions, looking at her with an uncomprehending, almost alien gaze. Her words, her tears, didn’t reach him. They shattered against his own pain, his wounded male ego, his need for a simple, physical confirmation that he was still loved and desired.

“You talk as if I’m a rapist,” he said finally, his voice flat and empty. “As if my touch defiles you.”

“No!” she cried out, almost shouting, and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth, afraid to wake their daughter. “No, Alex, that’s not it… it’s…”

She didn’t know how to explain. How to describe this all-consuming, physiological apathy? This absence not of love for him, but of desire itself? This feeling that all her resources, all her energy, all her flesh and nerves were working only for one person — their child. And for him, for her husband, there was simply nothing left. Not a drop.

“I’m just tired,” she whispered, giving up. It was the only thing he could understand. “I’m so very tired.”

He silently looked at her for a few more seconds. Then slowly rose from the sofa. He suddenly looked aged and very distant.

“Alright,” he said without emotion. “I get it. Go to bed, Anna. You’re tired.”

He turned and left the living room. She heard him go to the kitchen, open the fridge, pour himself some water. Then his footsteps faded in the hallway.

Anna sat hunched over, sobbing into a pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her own weeping. She felt like the most terrible woman in the world. A bad wife. A selfish person. He had offered her love, intimacy, and she had thrown his gift back in his face, smearing it with dirt.

Maybe half an hour passed. She calmed down, her tears dried, leaving only heaviness and emptiness behind. She trudged to the bedroom. Sofia was asleep. Alex lay on his side of the bed, turned toward the wall. He wasn’t moving, but by the tension in his back, she knew he wasn’t asleep.

She carefully lay down on her edge, trying not to touch him. A whole universe of silence, pain, and unspoken grievances lay between them. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, listening to her own heartbeat. It beat irregularly, anxiously, as if warning of an approaching storm.

He didn’t say “goodnight” to her. For the first time in all their years of marriage.

Anna turned on her side, her back to his back, and drew her knees up to her stomach, assuming the fetal position. She felt so alone in that silence that it seemed a little more — and she would disappear, dissolve into it without a trace.

The crack between them was no longer a thin thread. It was a real chasm. And she, Anna, had just dug it even deeper herself. She didn’t know if they had a bridge to cross it. Or if she had the strength to build one.

Chapter 3: A Stranger in the Mirror

The silence after that night was of the worst kind — thick, viscous, unhealthy. It wasn’t peaceful; it was conspiratorial, full of unspoken reproaches and stifled sighs. They moved around the apartment like two ghosts tracing their eternal circles, carefully avoiding collisions. Alex left for work earlier, came home later. Anna plunged into motherhood with even greater, almost frantic zeal, as if it were the only harbor where she wouldn’t face judgment or silent questions.

A week passed. One morning, after putting Sofia down for her first nap, Anna trudged into the bathroom. The air there was humid and steamy from Alex’s recent shower; it smelled of his shower gel — fresh, piney, masculine. Mechanically, she picked up her toothbrush, and her gaze fell on the large mirror above the sink, fogged with steam.

She wiped her palm across the cold, wet surface, clearing a view. And froze.

A stranger was staring back at her from the mirror.

It was her — the same eye shape, the same lips, the same oval face. But it all seemed crumpled, remade by an invisible and not very skilled tailor. Her face was gaunt, with purple, almost bluish shadows under her eyes. Her skin, which had always glowed with health, seemed dull and translucent. Her hair, once her pride — thick, shiny, smelling of expensive shampoo — was tied in a messy bun with stray strands sticking out. It looked lifeless and lusterless.

But the worst part was her body. She hadn’t looked at herself full-length for weeks, instinctively avoiding mirrors, getting dressed in the semi-darkness of the bedroom. Now, against her will, she saw everything.

Her shoulders were hunched under the weight of an invisible burden. Her breasts, enlarged from breastfeeding, hung heavy and unattractive. Her stomach… she slowly ran a hand over its soft, flabby roll that refused to go away. White, pearlescent stretch marks, like scars from some battle, radiated from her navel. They were on her hips, on her breasts. A map of a new, foreign territory she didn’t recognize as her own.

This body wasn’t bad. It was strong. It had carried and birthed a person. It was now feeding that person. It was a miracle, if you thought about it rationally. But in that moment, looking into the eyes of the stranger in the mirror, Anna felt neither strength nor wonder. She felt only alienation and a quiet, persistent horror.

Where had that woman gone? The one with the firm, toned body that had happily sunbathed on the beach, worn fitted dresses, and responded with pleasure to her husband’s caresses? The one who laughed, turning her face to the sun, not thinking about dark circles? The one whose sexuality had been as natural a part of her as breathing?

She was dead. Wiped away, dissolved in sleepless nights, endless feedings, anxieties, milk, and baby powder. Only this remained — tired, sagging, alien. A woman whose body belonged not to her, but to a function. The function of motherhood.

She pinched a fold of skin on her stomach, trying to suck it in, make it like before. Useless. Her skin, like a traitor, immediately returned to place, soft and obedient, a reminder that there was no going back.

Tears rose in her throat, bitter and helpless. She hated herself at that moment. Hated herself for these thoughts, for this ingratitude, for this disgust with herself. Hadn’t it performed a miracle? Hadn’t it given her Sofia? But her mind refused to listen to reason. Emotions were stronger. The pain of losing herself was stronger.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at that reflection any longer. Her gaze fell on the shelf where her things lay in a basket — combs, hair clips, makeup. Makeup… powder, mascara, lipsticks. It all seemed like artifacts from another life now, museum exhibits. What did she need them for? To paint this haggard face? To try and revive a gaze that held only fatigue and emptiness?

She reached for a bottle of foundation, as if grasping for a lifeline, a piece of her past self. The bottle slipped from her trembling fingers and fell onto the tiled floor. The cap flew off, and a thick beige mass spread in a shapeless blotch across the clean, shiny tiles.

That was the last straw. Some absurd, stupid little thing that overflowed the cup of her patience. Anna didn’t wipe it up. She just sank into a squat in the middle of the bathroom, wrapped her arms around her knees, and began to cry quietly, hopelessly. She cried for herself. For the Anna she had lost. For her body, which had become public property — doctors and nurses could examine it, it fed the child, it demanded care, but not for her sake, for the sake of performing its duties. It had ceased to be a source of pleasure and had become a tool for service.

She didn’t know how long she sat like that on the cold tiles until her tears dried up on their own, leaving only emptiness and a headache. Getting up, she avoided looking at both the stain on the floor and her reflection. She washed her face with icy water, hoping it would bring her back to reality, but reality was exactly this — shattered and uncomfortable.

Leaving the bathroom, she almost mechanically began tidying the bedroom, moving stacks of baby clothes from place to place, trying to occupy herself with anything just to avoid thinking. She reached to adjust a photo frame on his nightstand — their joint wedding photo — and knocked over another one standing behind it.

The frame fell flat on the carpet with a dull thud. Anna flinched and picked it up.

And froze, as if struck by lightning.

It was their old photo. Taken hastily, with a point-and-shoot camera, during a vacation in Crimea three years ago. There were no perfect poses or professional lighting. They stood on the seashore, bathed in the sunset. The sea behind them blazed orange and gold. Alex, tanned, his eyes sparkling with laughter, was carrying her in his arms, while she, struggling playfully, was dissolved in happy, carefree laughter. Her hair, wet from seawater, flew in the wind. She wore only a short sundress, clinging to her body, and her bare feet were covered in sand. She was tanned, slender, full of unbridled, wild energy and life. Her eyes shone with such happiness, such confidence in herself and in him, that it was painful to look at now.

Anna slowly ran her finger over the glass, over her laughing face. The girl from the photo looked back at her with challenge and carefree ease. She didn’t know about stretch marks, sleepless nights, or guilt. She didn’t know that her body, which she carried so lightly and joyfully across the beach, would one day become a source of shame and alienation for her. She loved, was loved, and was nothing but desire and possibility.

What had happened to that girl? Where had her strength gone? Her sexuality? Her light, almost animalistic joy in her own body?

The comparison was so cruel that Anna gasped aloud, as if from physical pain. She convulsively, almost throwing it, put the frame back in place, turning it to face the wall. She couldn’t look at it anymore. It was like looking at a photo of a dead person.

She turned away and stared out the window. It was a gloomy, gray day outside. Rain was about to start. A longing, heavy and sticky like tar, filled her completely, without a trace. She walked to the dresser, to the top drawer where her underwear was. Once, this drawer had been full of lace, silk, bright colors — scarlet, purple, black. Now, she pushed aside a few plain, practical nursing bras and felt for what she was looking for.

Deep in the corner, forgotten and crumpled, lay one of those very “early” lingerie sets — black, made of the finest French lace, almost weightless. She used to adore it. Alex did too.

She took it out and spread it on the dresser. The lace looked fragile and absurd against the rough wood, like an artifact from a civilization that no longer existed. Anna slowly, almost ritualistically, took off her cotton robe and house dress. She stood before the mirror, flooded with the cold light of the gray day, and looked at her reflection wearing only this luxurious, meaningless lingerie.

The sight was depressing and pathetic. The flip side of a glossy magazine. The treacherous lace didn’t hide but emphasized the flabby skin of her stomach, her sagging breasts, the stretch marks. It hung on her like a sack, screaming of incongruity. This lingerie was created for seduction, for play, for a body that knew its worth and knew how to enjoy itself. Not for this tired, exhausted body of a mother, smelling of milk and baby cream.

She stood like that for several minutes, feeling tears stream down her cheeks again — quiet, soundless, desperate. She tried to summon a drop of her former confidence, a spark of that fire that had once made her blush with anticipation when she put this on for him. Nothing. Only icy cold and an aching sense of shame.

She tore off the lace as if it were burning her skin and threw it back into the drawer, into the farthest corner. Then she pulled on her old, stretched-out sweatpants — her uniform, her armor. Only in them did she feel somewhat protected now.

A grunting sound came from the bedroom — Sofia was starting to wake up. The maternal instinct kicked in instantly, drowning out the personal drama. Anna wiped her face, took a deep breath, and went to her daughter. Her face took on its usual, loving, calm expression.

But inside, something had finally broken. The crack hadn’t only formed between her and Alex. Now it ran through herself, splitting her into two parts foreign to each other — the one that was before, and the one that was now. And she didn’t know if they could ever become one whole again.

Chapter 4: A Silent Scene

The silence that had settled between them after the evening in the living room was a special kind of torture. It wasn’t empty; it was densely populated by the ghosts of unspoken words, glances that were immediately averted, and sighs that got stuck in throats. They had learned to masterfully avoid each other within their own apartment, their movements honed to automaticity, like prisoners long accustomed to prison ritual.

Alex drowned himself in work. Anna drowned herself in Sofia. Their worlds, so recently united and indivisible, now orbited separately, only occasionally and tragically colliding.

A few more days passed. It was the weekend. A nasty autumn drizzle fell outside, forcing them to remain indoors, within walls that seemed to grow tighter with each passing hour. Sofia, as if sensing the general nervousness, was fussier than usual, and by evening Anna felt like a wrung-out lemon — exhausted, on edge, ready to burst into tears at any wrong look.

Alex had spent the day fiddling with his laptop in the kitchen, but Anna could see — he wasn’t working. He was just staring at the screen, aimlessly scrolling through pages, his fingers drumming on the table. He was like a lion in a cage, and his silent tension hung in the air, mixing with her own fatigue, creating a volatile, explosive mixture.

By nine in the evening, Sofia finally gave up and sank into a deep, serene sleep. An indecent, oppressive silence fell over the apartment, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock and the mournful patter of rain against the glass.

Anna, dead on her feet, shuffled out of the bedroom and headed to the kitchen to pour herself some tea. Alex was sitting at the table, staring into space. He looked up at her. His eyes were dark, tired, holding the same drained emptiness that was in hers.

“Asleep?” he asked, and his voice sounded hoarse from long silence.

“Asleep,” she nodded, turning toward the kettle so she wouldn’t have to see his face.

She felt his gaze on her back. It was heavy, physically palpable. She knew what he was thinking. About the same thing she was thinking but was afraid to admit to herself. That now was that very “convenient moment.” That they were alone. That the child was asleep. That it was time… to talk? To hug? To try?

Fear, cold and clammy, tightened her throat. She didn’t want conversations or attempts. She wanted to be left alone. For this night to be over and morning to come, bringing with it the familiar routine that didn’t require emotional strength.

The kettle whistled and clicked off. The sound seemed deafeningly loud in the kitchen’s silence. She poured boiling water into a mug, watching the tea leaves stain the water a dark, pungent color.

A chair scraped behind her. She flinched without turning around. She heard him approach. His breath was close. He stopped a step away from her, not daring to touch her.

“Anna,” he said quietly, and that one word held a whole universe of longing, pain, and bewilderment. “We can’t go on like this.”

She froze with the mug in her hands, feeling its heat burn her palms. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words were stuck somewhere deep inside, buried under layers of apathy and fear.

“I can’t live like this,” he continued, and his voice trembled. “We live like neighbors. As if a glass wall has been put up between us. I look at you, you look right through me. We only talk about the child, about everyday things. We… we don’t even sleep in the same bed. We sleep on opposite edges of it.”

She remained silent, staring into the dark depths of her tea. Every phrase of his was a needle piercing the very heart of her guilt. He was right. Absolutely right. But her silence wasn’t stubbornness. It was paralysis. She was like a rabbit before a boa constrictor, hypnotized by her own helplessness.

“Say something!” desperation broke through in his voice. He grabbed her shoulder and forced her to turn around to face him.

His touch, sudden and rough, was the trigger. All her accumulated fatigue, fear, irritation, and pain burst out in a single, blind impulse. She jerked sharply, broke free, and the hot tea from the mug splashed onto his hand and onto the floor.

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, and her own voice sounded foreign, wild, hysterical to her. “Don’t touch me, do you hear?!”

They froze, looking at each other with identical expressions of shock. On his face, the pain from the burn mixed with the pain from her scream. On hers — horror at what she had done and a wild, animal fear.

“My God, Anna,” he whispered, looking at the reddened skin on his hand. “I wasn’t going to hit you. I just… I just wanted to get through to you.”

He was telling the truth. He would never raise a hand to her. His touch hadn’t been a blow. It had been a plea. But her nervous system, worn down to nothing, had reacted precisely as if it were a threat.

“I can’t,” she babbled, retreating from him toward the wall as if seeking protection. “I can’t when you… when you touch me like that. I feel like I’ll suffocate. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

He looked at her, and the shock in his eyes slowly, inexorably gave way to something else. Something cold and frightening. Not anger. Disappointment. Final and irrevocable.

“When I ‘like that’? ” he repeated quietly, almost in a whisper. His hand slowly lowered. “‘Like what,’ Anna? Like your husband? Like a man who loves you? Or are you disgusted by that alone? Disgusted that I touch you? Disgusted that I’m near you?”

He wasn’t shouting. He spoke in an even, dead voice, and that was a thousand times worse than any scream. Every word hit its mark, tearing her apart.

“No…” she tried to deny it, but it sounded weak and false. Because in a way, he was right. She was disgusted. Not by him, but by the situation itself. By his touches that expected something from her. By his closeness, which she didn’t have to give. She was disgusted by the constant feeling of guilt that he inadvertently provoked just by his presence.

“Then what?!” his patience finally snapped. He didn’t shout, but his voice thundered in the small kitchen, filling every molecule of air. “What is happening to you? You won’t let me near the child? No! You’re the perfect mother! You smile and chat nicely with everyone else? Yes! With me? With me, you’re like a hedgehog! You look at me like I’m a rapist! I can’t compliment you, I can’t offer help, I can’t touch you! What did I do wrong? Tell me! Do I need to apologize for something? Am I to blame for something?”

She stood silent, pressed against the wall, tears streaming down her face, not even trying to wipe them away. She just looked at him, at his face distorted by pain and anger, and couldn’t utter a word. All her explanations — about fatigue, hormones, her body — seemed so pathetic, so insignificant in the face of his real, genuine agony.

Her silence was the last straw. He recoiled from her as if from a leper. His shoulders slumped. All the anger drained out of him at once, leaving behind only emptiness and a soul-chilling clarity.

“I see,” he said in a flat, lifeless tone. “You don’t know. Or you don’t want to know. Or you can’t say. It doesn’t matter.”

He slowly shook his head, looking somewhere past her, at the wall.

“I’m so tired, Anna. I’m tired of banging my head against a wall. I’m tired of waking up every day hoping that today will be better. I’m tired of catching your eye and seeing only fear and rejection. I… I’m drowning.”

He turned and walked out of the kitchen. She heard him go into the hallway. Heard him open the closet. There was the scrape of a hanger, the rustle of a jacket.

Her heart sank. Where? Was he leaving? Now? At night? In the rain?

She wanted to run after him, fall to her knees before him, beg him to stay, scream that she loved him, that it was just temporary, that she was losing her mind. But her legs wouldn’t obey. They were rooted to the floor by fear and that same paralyzing guilt that had bound her tongue.

She heard the lock on the front door click.

The silence that filled the apartment after that click was deafening. It was heavier than all the previous silences combined. It was the silence of devastation. The silence after a battle where there were no winners, only ruins.

Anna slowly slid down the wall onto the floor, onto the tiles where the dark stain of spilled tea was spreading. She wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth, moaning quietly like a wounded animal. She sat like that for maybe a minute, maybe an hour. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel. Only aware: he was gone. She had driven him away.

Then a sound reached her. Not from outside. From the bedroom. First a quiet grunting sound, then an insistent whimper. Sofia. Woke up. Scared of the thunder? Hungry? The maternal instinct, that ancient, immutable law, worked again, rebooting her system.

She got up from the floor. Wiped her face with her robe sleeve. Took a deep, ragged breath. And trudged to the bedroom, to her daughter. To the only being who demanded nothing from her now except her milk and her arms. To the only one she hadn’t yet failed.

She picked up Sofia, held her close, feeling the warmth of the little body spreading over her icy skin. The girl calmed down almost instantly, burying her nose in her neck.

Anna stood in the middle of the dark bedroom, rocking the child, and looked out the window into the black, impenetrable mirror of the night, which reflected her tear-stained face and lonely figure. The rain beat against the glass, as if begging to be let in, to share her loneliness with her.

She was completely alone. And for the first time since becoming a mother, her embrace could warm no one but the child herself. She herself was freezing from the inside, and she heard, somewhere deep down, at the very foundation of her world, another support crashing down with a roar.

Chapter 5: The Mask of Normalcy

The click of the lock behind Alex echoed in Anna with a deafening roar that seemed like it would sound within her forever. The night spent alone was the longest of her life. She didn’t sleep a wink, listening to every rustle outside the window, to the creak of the elevator in the stairwell, hopelessly hoping that the door would open and he would return. But the door remained silent, as did her phone, onto which she had desperately sent a single message: “I’m sorry. Please come back.”

There was no reply.

By morning, exhausted to the limit, she finally fell into a short, troubled sleep, full of fragments of nightmares where she ran after him down an endless corridor but couldn’t catch up, and her voice disappeared in her throat, unable to make a sound.

She was woken by Sofia’s insistent crying. Her heart, accustomed over these weeks to beating in rhythm with her daughter’s needs, forced her to get up, despite the leaden heaviness in her limbs and the emptiness in her soul. Mechanically, on autopilot, she fed the child, changed her, cleaned the apartment, washing the traces of yesterday’s tea from the tiles — a silent witness to her breakdown. Every movement was rehearsed, devoid of meaning. She was a mannequin, playing the role of a happy mother and wife.

The role of a wife… Her throat tightened at the thought. Where was he? Was he asleep? Was he just as unhappy?

Around noon, the doorbell rang. Anna’s heart leaped into her throat, and forgetting everything, she rushed to open it, already preparing to throw herself on his neck, sob, and ask for forgiveness.

But it wasn’t him at the door.

“Surprise!” cheerfully shouted Katya, her best friend, holding out a bouquet of bright autumn chrysanthemums. Next to her stood her boyfriend, Denis, with a bottle of expensive wine in his hand.

“We decided to drop by unannounced! To see our goddaughter and you, the new parents!” Katya, radiant, well-groomed, in a stylish coat and with perfect makeup, was already reaching out for Sofia.

Anna froze in the doorway, feeling a wave of panic wash over her. They weren’t supposed to see her like this. Weren’t supposed to see this empty apartment, her tear-swollen eyes, her loneliness.

“Come in,” she finally forced out, stepping back and stretching a weak, strained smile across her face. “What an unexpected… and pleasant surprise.”

She took the flowers, frantically thinking where to put them. Her hands were shaking.

“And where’s Alex? At work?” inquired Denis, walking into the living room and looking around with approval. “So clean, so cozy. Respect, Anya. Didn’t expect such order with a little one.”

“Yes… at work,” Anna lied, and it seemed to her that goosebumps would run down her skin from this lie. “Swamped. New project.”

“Well, of course,” Katya was already sitting on the sofa, rocking an interested Sofia in her arms. “Daddy has to work triple shifts now! And how are you? You look… tired.”

The last word held a slight, care-disguised criticism. Katya had always been the standard against which Anna involuntarily measured herself. And always came up short.

“Lack of sleep,” Anna brushed it off, hurrying to the kitchen to hide, collect her thoughts, figure out how to play this role further. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee, of course!” Katya called out. “You know I can’t function without it.”

Anna started making coffee, listening to Denis’s laughter and Katya’s chirping from the living room. They were the perfect couple. Young, beautiful, free. They slept in, went to concerts, took last-minute trips. Their love was easy, unburdened. They could afford passion.

A few minutes later, Denis came into the kitchen.

“Need any help?”

“No-no, it’s all ready.”

He leaned against the doorframe, watching her. His gaze was warm, friendly.

“You guys are doing great. Seriously. I look at you and can’t even imagine what it’s like to be parents. Seems like it completely changes your life.”

Anna gave a fake laugh.

“Well, not completely. It just adds new… colors.”

She felt herself blushing under his gaze. It seemed like he could see right through her. See her lie, her despair.

“Colors are good,” he smiled. Then his gaze fell on her hand, which was nervously fiddling with the edge of her apron. “Are you okay, Anna? You look pale.”

His sudden, sincere concern nearly undid her. One more word like that — and she would sob on his shoulder, spill the whole truth about her husband leaving, her loneliness, the body she hated.

“It’s all good,” she said again, turning back to the coffee machine. “Just not sleeping much.”

When they returned to the living room with a tray, Katya was already playing with Sofia, tickling her and eliciting happy baby laughter. The picture was idyllic. Guests were smiling, the child was laughing. All that was missing was the absent lead actor on stage.

“Oh, look how she’s smiling at you!” Katya marveled. “She’s your spitting image, Anya! Alex must be crazy about her?”

“Yes,” Anna lied again, and the bitter taste of the lie filled her mouth. “So proud.”

She caught Denis’s look. He was watching her thoughtfully, squinting slightly, as if studying her. She hastily averted her eyes.

Suddenly, Katya looked up at her with a radiant expression.

“You know what we thought? We want to take you to Italy in the spring! We’ve already been looking at villas in Tuscany. Can you imagine? Sun, wine, olive groves… Will you be able to get away? Leave Sofia with your mom for a week?”

Anna pictured it. Her and Alex. Sunsets. Wine. A shared bed. His hands on her skin under the Italian sun. Before, that would have sent a burst of delight through her. Now — only an icy wave of panic. To be alone with him. Without the saving screen of everyday life and the child. A whole week.

“I… I don’t know,” she muttered in confusion. “It’s so far… Sofia’s still so little…”

“Well, she’ll be bigger by spring!” Katya persisted. “You guys need this! The sex alone after a vacation like that will be atomic!” She playfully winked at Denis, who chuckled sheepishly, but his eyes sparkled.

Anna felt goosebumps run down her spine. Sex. They talked about it so easily, so casually, as something taken for granted. Like good food or fine wine. For them, it was exactly that. For her, that word now sounded like a sentence.

“Yeah, we could use…” she tried to find the words, not giving herself away, “…a change of scenery.”

At that moment, her phone on the table vibrated. All three of them involuntarily looked at the screen.

The name “Alex” glowed.

Anna grabbed the phone like a drowning woman clutching a straw, with both relief and fear simultaneously. He had texted! He was alive. What would he say? “I’m filing for divorce”? “I’m not coming back”?

“Oh, excuse me,” she jumped up from the sofa and ran out onto the balcony, slamming the door behind her.

Her heart was pounding wildly. She unlocked the phone.

“Forgot my charger. Will stop by tonight to get it. Don’t wait up.”

The message was dry, impersonal, like a note to a concierge. Not a single extra word. No “hello,” no “how are you.” Just a statement of fact. He wasn’t coming to see her. He was coming for a charger.

Her hands trembled so much she nearly dropped the phone. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the balcony door, trying to suppress the rising tears. He would come in the evening. Briefly. Like a stranger.

Taking a deep breath and pulling the mask of normalcy back on, she returned to the living room.

“Everything okay?” Katya asked, looking at her curiously.

“Yes,” Anna forced herself to smile. “Working. Said he’d stop by for a bit tonight. Misses his little girl.”

She said this with such tenderness in her voice that she almost believed this fairy tale herself. Look, what a caring father I have. How he misses us. How we all love each other.

Katya smiled contentedly.

“So sweet. Well, we won’t stay long. Don’t want to be in the way.”

They finished their coffee, cuddled Sofia a bit more, filled the apartment with laughter and light, carefree chatter about travels, mutual friends, future plans. Anna automatically kept up the conversation, nodded, smiled. She was the perfect hostess. The perfect mother. The perfect actress.

Finally, they got ready to leave. Katya hugged her goodbye.

“Hang in there, sunshine. You’re doing great. And remember Italy!”

Denis shook her hand. His handshake was firm and warm.

“Take care of yourself, Anna. And say hi to Alex.”

She closed the door behind them and leaned against it with her back. The silence that rushed in after their departure was deafening. The mask instantly slid off her face, revealing fatigue, pain, and emptiness. She slowly slid down onto the floor in the hallway and sat there, hugging her knees, staring into emptiness.

The echo of their laughter still hung in the air, mixing with the scent of Katya’s expensive perfume. They had taken a piece of that light, carefree life that had once been hers too. They had come from the world of passion, travel, and atomic sex, briefly invaded her world of diapers, milk, and loneliness, and left, leaving behind a bitter aftertaste of inadequacy.

She remembered how Alex had looked at her when Katya handed him Sofia. His gaze had been so tender, so proud. He looked at her as the mother of his child. It was beautiful. It was touching.

But it wasn’t the look of a man at a woman. It was the look of a father at a mother. He loved the mother of Sofia in her. But he had stopped seeing Anna. The very Anna he might have wanted to embrace under the Tuscan sun.

She sat on the cold floor of the hallway and realized that her greatest loss wasn’t the temporary absence of her husband from the apartment. It was his constant absence from the woman she used to be. And the most terrible thought was that that woman might have disappeared forever. And Italy, and atomic sex, and passionate looks remained in another dimension, the door to which had slammed shut the day two lines appeared on the test.

And the most awful thing was that, looking at her sleeping daughter, she couldn’t say she would regret it, even knowing the price she had paid. That thought made her guilt toward her husband even more unbearable.

Chapter 6: The Wrong Way Out

The day stretched on endlessly, like a poorly wound film reel stuck on the same frame. Anna paced the apartment, unable to find a place for herself. Thoughts of Alex’s impending evening visit were driving her crazy. He would come. See her. What would she say to him? How would she look? Could she put on the mask of normalcy again, like she had with the guests?

But with guests, it was easier. They could be deceived with a smile, tea, and small talk. Him, she couldn’t deceive. He saw right through her. He could smell her falseness a mile away.

The words of his message — “Don’t wait up” — burned her soul. They sounded like a verdict. Like a final break. He didn’t want her to wait for him. He wasn’t coming to her. He was coming for a thing. A charger. An object. The object was more important than her expectation.

By evening, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She was ready to burst into tears or scream at the slightest wrong sound. Sofia, sensing her tension, was fussier than usual and wouldn’t fall asleep easily. Rocking her, Anna herself almost fell asleep on her feet from exhaustion and emotional drain.

And then, in her desperately searching mind, a thought was born. A terrible, desperate, the-only-possible thought. If she couldn’t give him what he truly wanted… Maybe she could simulate it? Pretend. Just lie down and pretend. Endure it. Like enduring a painful procedure. It would be over faster, and everything would be okay. He would get what he was asking for. His male pride would be healed. And she… she would just close her eyes and think of something else. The weather. The shopping list. That she mustn’t forget to buy new diapers.

It was a horrible, humiliating idea. But it seemed like the only chance to stop the collapse. To pay this price to save the family. So he wouldn’t leave for good.

The decision, made in desperation, brought her a strange, painful relief. Now there was a plan. Action. No need to think, to feel. She just had to perform.

She started watching the clock again. Every minute pressed on her temples. She took a shower, put on not sweatpants but a clean, soft cotton dress. Not sexy, but not ascetic either. Neutral. She even applied a bit of mascara to hide the signs of sleeplessness but then wiped it off with a tissue — it would look like too obvious a signal, an attempt to seduce, and she didn’t want to seduce. She wanted… to pay a debt.

At half past eight, the key clicked in the lock. Anna’s heart sank into her heels. She was sitting in the living room, pretending to watch TV, but she saw and heard nothing except the roar of her own blood in her ears.

He came in. He looked tired and rumpled. He was wearing the same shirt as yesterday. He didn’t look at her. His gaze slid around the room, assessing, cold.

“Just here for the charger,” he said hollowly, heading for the bedroom.

“Okay,” she squeezed out. Her voice disobeyed her, sounding hoarse and foreign.

She heard him rummaging through the nightstand in the bedroom. A moment later, he came out, clutching a black cord. He was already heading for the exit, for that cursed door that had become a real border between them.

And then she stood up. As if mounting the scaffold.

“Alex… wait.”

He stopped, slowly turned around. His eyes held no hope, no interest. Only weary wariness.

“What?”

“Stay. For a little while.”

He looked at her silently, trying to understand the catch.

“Why?”

“Just… be here. Sofia’s asleep. We can… talk.”

He smirked, briefly and soundlessly. Dryly, like the crack of a dry twig.

“Seems we have nothing to talk about. At least, you don’t say anything.”

It was a blow. A fair and accurate one.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She took a step toward him. Then another. They stood facing each other in the middle of the living room like two boxers before a round, only neither wanted to throw a punch. Both wanted only one thing — for the pain to stop. “Just… stay. Please.”