My name is Andrei. I’m 45 years old, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of having a daughter.
It’s a strange thing for a man like me—a lead engineer, a practical guy—to admit, but it’s the truth. My first marriage ended amicably when we both accepted we couldn’t conceive. Then I met Polina. She was 15 years younger, vibrant, full of life. We married 7 years ago, and she knew about my dream. She shared it, or so she said. But… it just never happened.
The whole thing came crashing down on my mother’s 70th birthday.
I was standing at the living room window, watching the guests. My mother, Zoya, loves a celebration, and the apartment was full. Fifteen people, all laughing, glasses clinking.
“Andrei, what are you doing hiding over there?” Polina’s voice. She came up behind me, touching my shoulder. She looked flawless, as always. 30 years old, in a slim-fit dress, radiating an energy I felt I was starting to lack.
“Just thinking,” I mumbled. I couldn’t tell her the truth: I was watching the other guests with their children, feeling that familiar, dull ache.
“Andrei!” my mother’s voice boomed. “Come here, son! Aunt Lyuda wants to talk to you!”
I sighed and walked over to the table. Aunt Lyuda, a distant relative I saw maybe once every five years, immediately pulled me into a hug, leaving a smear of pink lipstick on my cheek. “Andrei, my golden boy! When are you going to give Zoya some grandchildren? Polina is a beauty! What are you two waiting for?”
I forced a smile. “When God provides, Aunt Lyuda.”
“Eh, God!” she waved her hand. “You’re young, healthy. My Marina has two already, and she’s only 23!”
As my mother ran interference, I looked over at Polina. She was across the room, telling an animated story to my mother’s friends. Suddenly, she stopped mid-sentence. Her face contorted. She paled and grabbed the edge of a table.
“Polina?” her friend asked.
I was moving before she even started to fall. I saw her eyes roll back as her knees buckled. “Polina!” I shouted, diving and catching her just before she hit the floor.
The room erupted. “What happened?” “My God, she’s fainted!” “Give her air!”
I knelt on the floor, holding my wife. Her head was limp, her face a waxy white. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Polina, can you hear me?” I slapped her cheek lightly. Nothing.
“Someone call an ambulance!” My voice was shaking.
“I’m calling!” someone yelled.
My mother knelt beside me, surprisingly calm. “Andrei, put her on the sofa. Gently.”
I lifted her and laid her down. A moment later, she groaned. Her eyelids fluttered. “Andrei…?” she whispered.
“I’m here, baby. I’m right here. You fainted.”
“I’m… so dizzy…”
The medics arrived quickly. As they were checking her blood pressure and pulse, my mother pulled me aside, a strange, knowing smile on her face. She leaned in and whispered in my ear.
“Son… congratulations.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending. “Congratulations? Mom, what are you talking about?”
Her eyes sparkled. “I fainted just like that, Andrei… right before I found out I was pregnant with you.”
My heart stopped. Pregnant. The word exploded in my mind. A daughter. Could it be? I’d been so focused on our “problems” I hadn’t even considered… I looked at Polina, a new, frantic hope rising in my chest.
The Hospital
I rode in the ambulance with her, my mind racing. At the hospital, they whisked her away for tests. I was left in the sterile white hallway, under the buzzing fluorescent lights, vibrating with this terrifying new hope.
After an hour, a doctor came out, a tired-looking man in scrubs.
“Mr. Tikhonov? Your wife’s husband?”
I shot to my feet. “Yes! Is she okay? Is… is she…?”
The doctor sighed. “It’s standard over-exhaustion. And she mentioned she’s on a new, very restrictive diet. She needs to eat more. Frankly, starvation will do this to you.”
The hope in my chest deflated instantly. “Oh. So… she’s not… pregnant, then?”
The doctor looked at me, then down at his chart, then back at me with a look of professional pity. “Mr. Tikhonov… judging by her bloodwork, I’d say that’s impossible.”
“What… what do you mean? Her tests were fine…”
He sighed again, clearly not wanting to be in this position. “Sir, based on the hormone levels in her blood, your wife is actively taking a contraceptive.”
The words didn’t make sense. “A what? A contraceptive? No, no, that’s… that’s a mistake. We’ve been trying for… for seven years.”
“I’m not mistaken,” the doctor said, his voice gentle. “She’s on the pill. Now, we’re giving her an IV with some vitamins. You can take her home in about 15 minutes.”
He walked away. I collapsed back onto the hard plastic chair. The buzzing of the lights filled my head. Contraceptives. On the pill.
Seven years. Seven years of conversations about children. Seven years of her crying, saying “Maybe next month.” Seven years of me supporting her, comforting her, holding her. All of it… a lie. My dream of a daughter, the one thing she knew I wanted more than anything… she had been actively preventing it.
The Confrontation
The ride home was silent. I could feel Polina looking at me, but I just stared out the window, my mind a blank, cold void.
When we got inside, she went to the bedroom. “Andrei, I’m just going to lie down…”
“Polina,” I said, my voice sounding rusty, “I’m making dinner.”
I went to the kitchen. I started chopping vegetables. Chop. Chop. Chop. The rhythm was the only thing keeping me sane. But my hands were shaking. I saw her purse on the counter. The one she never let me touch.
I had never, in seven years, gone through her things. But the doctor’s words…
I unzipped it. I dumped the contents. Keys, wallet, lipstick, a half-eaten protein bar… and a small, circular plastic case.
A blister pack of Regulon. Birth control.
Most of the pills were gone.
I stood there, holding that little plastic disc in my hand, and felt the last piece of my heart turn to stone.
I put the blister pack on the table, right next to her empty plate, and went to the bedroom.
“Dinner’s ready,” I said.
She came into the kitchen, smiling, looking a little better. “Wow, Andrei, smells delicious. Thank you, honey…”
She stopped. She saw the blister pack on the table.
Her smile vanished. Her face went pale.
“You… you went through my purse?” she whispered, her voice laced with outrage.
“You told me you wanted children,” I said. My voice was quiet. It scared me how quiet it was.
“I… Andrei… it’s not what you think…”
“Seven years, Polina.” I looked up at her, and I think she finally saw the stranger I had become in the last hour. “Seven years you’ve been lying to me? Why?”
“Because you’re obsessed!” she suddenly shrieked, her fear turning to anger. “That’s all you ever talk about! ‘Our daughter.’ ‘When we have a daughter.’ ‘What we’ll name our daughter.’ You don’t want a wife, Andrei! You want an incubator!”
“I… I wanted a family,” I stammered. “With you.”
“No, you wanted your dream! And I was just supposed to give it to you! I have a life! I have a career! I don’t want to be a mother!”
“Then why… why… did you lie to me for seven years? Why did you marry me?”
“Because you wouldn’t have married me otherwise!” she screamed. “You said it on our third date! That kids were the most important thing! I… I loved you! I thought you’d… you’d just… forget about it! That I would be enough!”
I stared at her. The woman I loved had built our entire life on a foundation of such profound deception… I couldn’t breathe.
“You stole seven years of my life,” I whispered.
“Nobody’s keeping you!” she yelled. “You want kids so bad? Go! Go find someone else! Find some young, dumb girl who’ll pop out ten daughters for you!”
“Maybe I will,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket.
“Andrei, wait!” she suddenly yelled. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer. I just walked out the door and slammed it behind me, the sound final.
The Girl on the Highway
I got in my car. I just drove. I had no destination. I just drove, blind with rage and a pain so deep it felt like a physical wound. The city lights blurred through my tears. I ended up on the dark, empty highway heading out of town. I must have been driving for an hour, the speedometer climbing—80, 90, 100—when I saw a gas station up ahead.
I slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching. I pulled in, my hands shaking. I needed to breathe.
As I sat there, the engine ticking, I saw something. A small silhouette, moving along the dark shoulder of the highway, just past the cone of light from the station.
My God, it’s a child.
I jumped out of the car. The November wind hit me, cold and sharp. “Hey!” I shouted. “Hey, stop!”
The figure didn’t stop. I ran.
As I got closer, I saw it was a little girl, maybe five or six years old. She was in a thin dress and a light cardigan, totally wrong for the weather. Her hair was matted, her face smudged with dirt.
“Hey, kid!” I said, trying to make my voice soft, but I was still breathing hard.
She stopped and turned. Her eyes were huge and terrified. She backed away, clutching her hands to her chest.
“No, no, I won’t hurt you,” I said, kneeling to her level. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She just stared, trembling.
“What’s your name?”
Silence.
“Where are your parents? Are you lost?”
She just kept staring, shivering so hard her teeth were chattering.
“My God, you’re freezing,” I whispered. I took off my own jacket and wrapped it around her. She was light, almost nothing. She didn’t resist, just burrowed into the warm fabric.
“I’m taking you to my car, okay? It’s warm. I’ll get you some help.”
I picked her up. She was light as a feather. I carried her back to the car, sat her in the passenger seat, and blasted the heat. She was still silent, just watching me with those huge, haunted eyes.
I ran into the gas station, bought a bottle of water, a chocolate bar, and a bag of chips. I came back and handed them to her. She tore into the chocolate like she hadn’t eaten in days.
“Okay,” I said, getting back in the driver’s seat. “I’m taking you home with me. We’ll get you warm, get you food, and then we’ll… we’ll figure this out.”
I drove home. The whole way, she never said a word. I kept glancing at her. This tiny, silent, terrified child. My own problems, my own rage at Polina… it all just… evaporated. This was a real problem. This was a life.
When I pulled up to our apartment building, Polina’s car was still there. Of course.
I carried the sleeping girl inside. Polina was on the couch, her face red and puffy from crying. She looked up, ready to start fighting again, then she saw the child in my arms.
“Andrei…?” she started. “Who… what is that?”
“I found her on the highway. She’s freezing. She won’t talk.”
Polina stood up. “On the… highway? Andrei, what the hell?”
“She needs a bath, Polina. She needs food.”
Polina’s face, which had been soft with confusion, hardened. “What are you talking about? You can’t just… bring her here. Take her to the police.”
“I will. First, I’m going to get her warm and fed.”
“No!” Polina stepped in my way. “I’m not having some… some street child in my house. What if she’s sick? What if she has… lice? Get her out, Andrei! Take her to a shelter, or the police, or… or back where you found her! I don’t care! Get her out!”
I looked at my wife. Her face was twisted in disgust, looking at this poor, shivering child.
“She’s five years old, Polina.”
“And she’s not our problem! I just had the worst night of my life, and you bring this home? Get her out!”
I stared at her for a long, cold second. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that my marriage was over.
“Fine,” I said.
I went to the kitchen. I grabbed a reusable grocery bag. I filled it with bread, cheese, apples, juice boxes, and the cookies from the counter. I went to the hall closet and grabbed my old, thick wool sweater and a heavy blanket.
The girl was watching me, her eyes wide.
Polina was watching me too, a small, triumphant smirk on her face. “Good. Take her to the police.”
I picked the girl up again. I carried her back down to the car. I drove to the outskirts of town, to an old, abandoned construction site under a highway overpass. I knew homeless people sometimes sheltered there. It was out of the wind.
I parked the car. I carried her to a dry spot under the concrete bridge. I laid out the blanket, sat her down, and wrapped my sweater around her.
I put the bag of food beside her.
“Look,” I said, my voice thick with a shame that was choking me. “Eat this. Stay here. It’s… it’s dry. I’ll come back in the morning. I promise. I’ll… I’ll take you to the police then.”
She just stared at me, her face a mask of betrayal.
I couldn’t stand it. I turned and walked back toward my car. My heart was breaking. This was a new low. My wife had turned me into a monster.
I was almost to my car, my hand on the door handle, when I heard it. A tiny, hoarse voice.
“Uncle?”
I froze. I turned around. The little girl was standing at the edge of the blanket.
“Uncle… don’t leave me,” she whispered.
It was the first time she’d spoken.
“Please… I’m very rich. Just don’t tell anyone.”
I walked back to her, my mind reeling. “What… what did you say?”
“I’m rich,” she repeated, tears welling in her eyes. “My mama has lots and lots of money. We live in a big house. If you help me… Mama will pay you. A lot.”
“Sweetheart,” I said, kneeling in the dirt. “I don’t want money. What happened? Where is your mama?”
“We were… we were running away,” she sobbed. “From Uncle Ivan. We ran through the woods. He caught us. Mama screamed. She… she told me to run. To run and not stop. I ran. I ran for so long… and then I found the road. He… he hit her. I think he… he might have… killed her…”
She dissolved into gut-wrenching sobs.
“Who is this Ivan?” I asked, pulling her into a hug.
“He wanted to be my new dad,” she sniffled into my shirt. “He was nice. He gave me presents. But then… Mama found out a secret. I don’t know what. He got mean. He started yelling. And then… and then he hit her.”
My blood ran cold. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. What’s your name?”
“Eva,” she whispered.
“Okay, Eva. I’m Andrei. Do you know where your house is? Can you tell me the address?”
She nodded. “I’m scared to go back,” she cried. “What if he’s still there?”
I looked into her terrified, tear-filled eyes. And in that moment, all the rage I’d felt for Polina, all my self-pity, all of it focused into one, single point.
“I won’t let him hurt you,” I said, my voice a low growl I didn’t recognize. “I promise. We’re going to go to your house. And if he’s there… I will protect you.”
She looked at me, really looked at me, and nodded. “Okay.”
She told me the address. It was in the old, wealthy part of town. The part I never drove through.
“Let’s go, Eva,” I said, scooping her up. “Let’s go find your mom.”
The Mansion
We drove to the address. It wasn’t a house. It was an estate. A massive, two-story brick mansion behind a high, wrought-iron fence.
I parked on the street. “Eva, stay here. Lock the doors. Don’t come out, no matter what. I’m going to check.”
She nodded, her face pale.
I slipped through the unlocked front gate. The front door of the house was slightly ajar. My heart was pounding. I heard… shouting. A man’s voice, thick with rage. A woman’s voice, crying.
I pushed the door open.
“You think I’m joking?” a man’s voice roared from the living room. “I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’LL KILL YOU!”
“Please, Ivan, stop!” a woman sobbed.
I ran into the room. The scene was horrifying. A beautiful blonde woman was crumpled on the floor by the fireplace, her lip split, a massive bruise forming on her cheek. A large, expensive-looking man in a suit stood over her, a broken whiskey glass in his hand.
“If you don’t transfer the rest of the accounts, I’ll kill you,” he snarled, “and then I’ll go find your little brat!”
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?” I yelled.
The man, Ivan, spun around, his eyes wide with drunken rage. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”
“I’m a friend of Eva’s,” I said, moving to stand between him and the woman on the floor.
“A… a ‘friend’?” he sneered. “You’re her lover? You’re dead!”
He lunged at me. He was big, but he was drunk. I was sober, and I was filled with a righteous fury I hadn’t felt since my military days. I sidestepped his clumsy punch and hit him, hard, in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. He came at me again, and we went down, rolling over a glass table, shattering it. He was strong, his hands grabbing for my throat. I slammed my palm into his nose. There was a crack, and he roared in pain, blood pouring.
Just then, the room was filled with flashing red and blue lights.
“POLICE! HANDS UP! GET ON THE GROUND!”
Two officers burst in, guns drawn. They pulled me off the bloody, semiconscious man.
“He… he was trying to kill me,” the woman on the floor, Alisa, whispered. “He wanted my money… he… he was going to kill my daughter…”
The police cuffed Ivan. I was breathing hard, my knuckles bleeding.
“You okay, ma’am?” one officer asked Alisa.
“Yes… yes… my daughter… Eva…”
“She’s safe,” I said, gasping. “She’s in my car.”
Alisa burst into tears of relief. “Thank God… thank God…”
UPDATE: One Year Later
That night, my life changed.
The Aftermath:
Eva and Alisa were safe. The police and an ambulance came. Alisa had two broken ribs, a concussion, and multiple bruises, but she would be fine. Ivan, it turned out, was a con artist and abuser who had been trying to get Alisa to sign over her late husband’s estate. He was arrested for attempted murder, kidnapping (he’d locked Alisa in the house), and assault. He’s now serving a very, very long sentence.
Alisa and Eva:
While Alisa was in the hospital, I took care of Eva. I took her to my mother’s house (who, after hearing the story, welcomed her with open arms and fury at Polina). I stayed with her. I read her stories. I listened as she finally, slowly, started to talk about what she’d seen.
Polina:
I went back to the apartment the next day to get my things. Polina was there.
“You’re leaving me? For that?” she sneered, referring to Eva.
“I’m leaving you, Polina, because you’re a liar. And because you’d have me leave a five-year-old child under a bridge.”
I signed the divorce papers without a single regret. Our marriage was a lie.
My New Family:
After Alisa was released, I kept visiting. Eva was the bridge. We’d take her to the park, all three of us. We’d have dinner. Alisa and I, two people shattered by betrayal, slowly started to heal. We talked. We shared our stories. We understood each other’s pain.
One night, months later, after Eva was asleep, Alisa took my hand. “You’re an amazing man, Andrei,” she whispered.
“I’m just a guy who found a kid on the road,” I said.
“No,” she said, her eyes shining. “You’re the man who saved us.”
That was a year ago.
I’m writing this from the back porch of Alisa’s… our… house. I married Alisa six months ago, in a small ceremony in the backyard. My mother was there, crying happy tears. Eva was the flower girl.
Last night, I was tucking Eva into bed. She’s my daughter now, legally. I adopted her.
“Goodnight, Papa,” she said, sleepily.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” I said, kissing her forehead.
“You know why I knew you were a good man?” she mumbled, half-asleep.
“Why, baby?”
“Because you were sad,” she said. “In the car. You looked sad, like me. Bad people aren’t sad like that.”
I stood in her doorway for a long time. My ex-wife’s betrayal led me to that highway. Her cruelty led me to be in the right place, at the right time, to save the family I was always meant to have.
This morning, Alisa came out onto the porch with two cups of coffee. She put her hand on my shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
I smiled and pulled her close. “Just… how lucky I am.”
A moment later, the door slid open, and Eva ran out, tackling us both in a hug. “Papa! Mama! Let’s go build something!”
And we did. My dream finally came true. I have my daughter.