A little baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, was dozing quietly in Yulia’s arms, occasionally wrinkling her face and twitching her tiny nose. The nurse offered to see her off at the exit, but Yulia refused, although she still felt a deep weakness after giving birth.
“Everything’s fine with me, I can handle it on my own,” she mumbled, pulling her son closer and searching for her phone in her pocket.
For five long days she had been waiting for the discharge papers from the maternity ward, imagining how Artyom would greet their baby. She dreamed of the moment when he would scoop both her and the child into his arms, filled with joy and love.
Yulia pulled out her phone, trying not to disturb her son’s position, and saw a message from her husband: “I’m already on my way. Don’t go out without me.” Her lips curved into a smile. Artyom always loved to surprise her—perhaps today he had something special planned.
The tiny bundle in the blanket stirred, smacked its lips. Yulia gently pulled the fabric aside to get a glimpse of the little face. Nikitka. Their miracle, the one she and Artyom had waited for so long. They had chased that dream for almost seven years; they had been married for just as long.
“Now, daddy’s coming, my little one,” she whispered, adjusting the edge of the blanket.
The phone buzzed again.
“Things have changed. I’m waiting until you take a DNA test; otherwise, there’s no point in meeting.”
Yulia read the message several times, trying to grasp its meaning. The letters blurred before her eyes, as if mocking her hopes.
“Artyom? Are you kidding?” she croaked, addressing the empty corridor.
The phone rang, and her husband’s name lit up the screen. Yulia, with trembling fingers battling her anxiety, answered the call.
“What does this mean?” her voice sounded sharper than usual.
“Yul, let’s not get all dramatic, okay?” Artyom spoke calmly, as if discussing grocery choices. “You understand—I need to be sure.”
“Sure about what?” Yulia felt everything inside her shatter. The baby, sensing her distress, began to fuss and cry.
“That this child is really mine,” Artyom patiently explained. “We’ve tried for years, and suddenly… you know how it is.”
“Are you serious?” her voice trembled with anger. “Come get us, we just left the maternity ward. This is your son, damn it!”
“Do you know where you can shove your paranoia?” she hissed in reply, feeling hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mom will take Nikitka and me. I never want to see you again.”
“Yul, let’s not be ridiculous,” his tone remained calm. “Just think about it.”
She hung up the call. Now Nikita was crying at the top of his voice, his little face flushed with worry.
“Shh, shh, baby, it’s alright,” she soothed him, rocking him and wiping away his tears.
With trembling fingers, Yulia dialed her mother’s number.
“Mom, please take us,” she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice. “Artyom… he’s not coming.”
How could she explain to her mother what had happened? How could she even comprehend why her husband was demanding a DNA test?
Twenty minutes later, a familiar car pulled up to the maternity ward. Out of it sprang Elena Sergeyevna, holding a bouquet of blue balloons.
“Where’s Artyom?” she asked immediately, casting a quick glance over her daughter’s shoulder.
Yulia only shook her head, holding the slightly calmed Nikita close.
“I’ll tell you later, Mom. Let’s go home.”
And, without looking back at the building where not long ago she had been the happiest woman in the world, Yulia got into the car next to her mother.
The phone buzzed again. She glanced at the screen automatically.
“Think it over, Yulia. This is important for all of us. And yes, I didn’t mean to hurt you, if anything.”
She turned off the phone, not wanting to deal with it any further.
By evening, Nikita finally fell asleep in his grandmother’s old crib that she had taken from the loft. Yulia sat in the kitchen, cradling a cup of mint tea. The message still hovered before her eyes.
“Seven years, Mom,” she quietly murmured, staring at the light-colored wallpaper. “Seven years of treatment, hope, and faith. The doctors said the problem was with him. And now…”
Elena Sergeyevna sighed heavily:
“Maybe he just got scared of responsibility? Men sometimes do that. They want a child, and then when it happens, they start to panic.”
“DNA test, Mom! He’s demanding a DNA test! As if I was cheating on him. What does responsibility have to do with this?”
Yulia covered her face with her hands, and the tears she had held back all day began to flow.
Memories of the past year came flooding back. That was when she had returned home after yet another visit to the specialist.
An old doctor with thick glasses and a sparse beard had scratched his chin for a long moment before speaking.
“Theoretically, there’s a chance, my dear,” he said. “But your husband will need treatment. At this stage, the likelihood of pregnancy from him is extremely low. Perhaps you should consider other options.”
Then Yulia had wept in the car, unable to bring herself to return home. How could she tell Artyom that their six years of effort, six years of hope, meant almost nothing? Only “almost,” because there was still a theoretical chance.
When she finally mustered the strength to share the news, Artyom surprised her with his calm demeanor. He simply took her hand and said:
“We’ll find a solution, Yul. If necessary, we’ll do IVF. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll adopt.”
That’s when she loved him even more. Despite the difficulties, arguments, and hurts, he had always been her support.
And now this message about the DNA test seemed utterly unthinkable. How? Why? Where did this turn come from?
“Have you… really not tried those… I mean, donor options?” Elena Sergeyevna asked cautiously, pressing her lips together.
“Mom!” Yulia snapped, her voice trembling with indignation. “What donor options? This is our child, Artyom! We simply tried, and it happened. A miracle, you understand? And he…”
Tears streamed down her face again, despite all her efforts to remain composed. Elena Sergeyevna sighed and hugged her daughter tighter around the shoulders.
“Now, now, calm down. Perhaps men sometimes react like this to big changes. Talk to him, explain everything—he’ll understand.”
Yulia shook her head, recalling the last few months of her pregnancy. Artyom had indeed been happy about the new family member, but his joy had seemed forced, restrained. He did everything expected of him: attending doctor’s appointments, picking out clothes, toys, and a crib for the baby. But it felt more like fulfilling obligations than genuine emotion.
In her memory, his questions resurfaced—questions she had once dismissed as mere anxiety:
“Are you sure you didn’t stay late at Sergey’s corporate party? You said you worked until late…”
“And why is Petya from accounting added as your friend on VKontakte?”
The little things that once seemed unimportant now appeared in a different light. Perhaps it was those very details that pushed Artyom to such thoughts.
Her phone, which she had turned back on, buzzed. A new message from her husband: “Yulia, where are you? Is everything okay with you?”
Yulia set the device aside. A conversation with Artyom was inevitable, but right now she needed time to gather her thoughts.
On the third morning of staying at her mother’s apartment, bright light and Nikita’s crying woke Yulia. She stretched, trying to ignore the nagging pain in her lower abdomen, and picked up her son.
“Just a moment, my little one,” she whispered, soothing him. And then she heard a knock at the door.
Elena Sergeyevna, already ready to leave, glanced toward the hallway:
“I’ll open. You’re busy,” she said, disappearing around the corner.
Yulia tensed as she recognized her husband’s voice. Artyom clearly didn’t have time to wait.
“Hello, Elena Sergeyevna. Is Yulia home?”
“Yes, but she’s feeding Nikita right now. Please wait a bit.”
“Of course, I’ll wait,” he replied, his tone impatient.
Ten minutes later, after Nikita had fallen asleep following his feeding, Yulia handed him over to his grandmother and slowly made her way into the living room. Artyom was standing by the window, fidgeting with his keys. At the sight of his wife, he froze.
“Yul,” he began, stepping closer. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? I was worried.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, as if constructing a barrier between them.
“And are you sure you needed to be in touch with me? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just forget about us until the DNA test confirmed your doubts?”
Artyom grimaced as if in pain:
“Let’s talk normally, please.”
Yulia hesitated, then nodded. They moved to the kitchen. Artyom sat on a chair opposite her, avoiding her gaze.
“Yul, I want to be sure,” he repeated, as if that could justify everything.
“Sure about what?” her voice snapped. “That I didn’t cheat on you? Or that I didn’t use donor material without your consent? Both assumptions are equally insulting.”
“These aren’t personal suspicions,” Artyom tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. “It’s just that the doctors said the chances were minimal. And then suddenly…”
“Minimal, but not zero!” Yulia felt everything boil inside her. “You have no idea how painful it is to realize that your own husband thinks you’re capable of that!”
“Yul, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” his voice softened. “It’s just… at work, I’ve heard so many stories…”
“Stories?” she scoffed. “I wonder which stories exactly?”
“Well… Ignat from our marketing department—his wife gave birth, and then it turned out the child wasn’t his. Can you imagine how he must have felt? And there are plenty of similar cases on the Internet. People are writing comments, suggesting taking tests right at the maternity ward. It’s not for nothing.”
“What?” Yulia couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you comparing me to women from other stories? To those who truly betrayed their husbands? How can you even draw such parallels?”
“I’m not saying you’re like them,” Artyom insisted, clearly struggling with his words. “I just want to be certain.”
“Certain?” she bitterly laughed. “After seven years of marriage? After everything we’ve been through together? And you decide to test me like this?”
Nikita, as if sensing the tension, began crying in another room. Yulia sprang up:
“Enough. I’m tired of this discussion. If the test means so much to you—go ahead. But know this: everything will be different afterward.”
She left the kitchen, leaving Artyom sitting there with a stone-cold expression. Approaching her son, Yulia held him close, whispering soothing words. But inside, everything was cracking.
The DNA sampling procedure turned out to be simple. Yulia stood by, holding her son, and avoided looking at her husband. Every contact between them now only brought pain.
“The results will be ready in a week,” the nurse informed, carefully placing the samples into special containers.
“A week?” Artyom tapped his fingers impatiently on the counter. “Can it be done faster?”
“There is an express analysis. For an extra fee, the results come in three days.”
“Excellent, let’s do that,” Artyom said, pulling out his card without taking his eyes off his wife.
Yulia watched the scene in silence. Three days or a week—it made no difference now. The most important thing was that the trust between them had vanished.
Leaving the clinic, Artyom tried to take her hand.
“Careful,” he said, helping her over the steps.
She jerked her hand away sharply.
“Don’t pretend you care about my well-being.”
“I really do worry about you,” his voice sounded sincere, but Yulia no longer believed a single word he said. “Yul, why are you reacting so aggressively? Why can’t you see my point of view?”
“See your point of view?” she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, drawing the attention of passers-by. “How am I supposed to react? Smile happily when my husband thinks I’m capable of cheating? When he’d rather be suspicious than trust?”
“I never said you cheated!” Artyom raised his voice but quickly lowered it again. “It’s just… there are various situations.”
“For example?” Yulia looked him straight in the eyes. “Tell me at least one reason that made you doubt.”
Artyom fell silent, nervously fiddling with his shirt collar. Yulia knew there would be no answer. Sometimes it was better not to know the reasons, in order to preserve a shred of dignity.
At home, she laid Nikita in the cradle and sat next to him, burying her face in her hands. Now she understood: their relationship would never be the same again. Trust cannot be restored once it’s shattered by a single word, a single doubt.
On the evening of the third day, Artyom called. His voice was tense:
“Yul, can I come in? We need to talk.”
“Come over,” she replied curtly, though everything inside her tightened.
When he entered, she met him with a cold look. Artyom offered her flowers, but she turned away.
“You’re right,” he began, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “I should have trusted you from the start. But those stories… they scared me. I was afraid of ending up like Ignat.”
“And what?” her voice was quiet, yet each word dripped with pain. “Can you really compare me to strangers you don’t even know?”
“No, of course not.” He stepped forward, but she recoiled. “Yul, I love you. And I love Nikita too. This test won’t change anything.”
“It will change things,” her voice trembled. “It’s already changed everything. You yourself have destroyed what we built over the years. Now it’s just a matter of time before I decide whether our relationship is worth continuing.”
Artyom lowered his head, understanding that he had made an irreparable mistake. And Yulia knew: there was no turning back. Even if the test shows that Nikita is his son, something in their bond had been broken forever.
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