A Child

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Ai-Todor, Late November 1923

Irina

Three weeks after learning she was expecting a child, Irina still hadn't come to terms with it. Her body, however, left her no choice. She was overwhelmed by morning sickness every day, so intense that she could hardly keep any food down. Feeling weak and miserable, she spent most of her days confined to bed, utterly drained of energy. The mere idea of making the long, uncomfortable journey to Yalta to attend her university lectures felt impossible. She couldn't imagine sitting in a classroom now, focused on anything other than the churning in her stomach and the dizzying fatigue that seemed to blanket her every thought.

The physical symptoms were relentless, but they kept her from confronting the deeper truth that was threatening to break her. She had been so close to her dream—her education, her future—and now it all felt like it was slipping away. Not because of some unavoidable circumstance, but because of her own blind trust. She had assumed Feodor knew what he was doing when it came to preventing this. He had reassured her that there were ways to prevent it, again and again, and she had believed him. How could she have been so foolish, so careless? She had notes—pages of methods Marianne had shared with her—yet she had never checked them to ensure Feodor followed any of them. She had been too confident, too trusting, and now here she was.

Feodor, for his part, was doing everything he could to make her feel comfortable. He stayed close to the house, visiting her room throughout the day, asking if she needed anything. But Irina was too angry to appreciate his efforts. Every time he appeared at her door, she had to fight the urge to lash out. He didn't understand. He couldn't. For him, this news was nothing short of a triumph—he was practically bursting with the desire to tell his family, to announce it to the world. If it were up to him, the newspapers would already be printing the announcement. He didn't see that for her, this pregnancy was the glaring symbol of her failure. A failure to protect her own future, her own dreams.

In a week, they would be travelling to Paris for Natalia's birthday. She knew she wouldn't be able to hide the pregnancy for much longer, but the thought of telling anyone terrified her.

One afternoon, Feodor quietly entered her room. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching her as she lay curled up in bed, the shadows of her emotions playing across her pale face. Gently, he sat down on the edge of the bed and asked how she was feeling.

Irina didn't bother to answer. The nausea had subsided for now, but her mind was too full to speak. She stared at the ceiling, trying to hold back the frustration that surged inside her.

Feodor shifted, clearly searching for the right words. "I know this is difficult," he said quietly. "But I wished you could understand how much of a blessing a child is, Irina. I'm sure you're going to be an incredible mother."

Irina turned her head sharply to look at him, her eyes narrowing. "A blessing?" She heard a voice thick with anger. "Feodor, I'm not ready for this. I don't want this right now. I had plans—my education, my life—and now it's all slipping away because we weren't careful. I trusted you to handle it, and look where that's gotten me."

Irina sat up, her eyes blazing with anger as she clenched her fists in frustration. "Did you even know what you were saying when you told me there were ways to prevent this?" Her voice trembled with a mixture of disbelief and fury. "Did you actually do anything? Or was that just something you said to make me feel better?"

Feodor froze, his face flushing with embarrassment. He averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of her accusation. For a moment, he struggled to find the right words, but the truth was there, hanging between them. Finally, with a sigh, he rubbed the back of his neck, his voice barely above a whisper.

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