— Every movement drained his last strength, — Nikita felt as if leaden waves of weakness were crashing over his consciousness. The attempt to turn his head ended in excruciating failure — his neck muscles seemed to have melded into the pillow. Helplessness overwhelmed him; his eyelids closed on their own, unleashing a swarm of memories…
Returning from work on that fateful day, he was already turning into the courtyard when he noticed Nika’s car. As usual, engrossed in a phone conversation, she had abandoned her car in the middle of the roadway, ignoring the signals and curses of other drivers. He merely sighed, pleased by the sparse traffic in the area.
Just as he was steering his car into a parking nook, he suddenly noticed a speeding minibus. The vehicle was weaving between rows like a wounded animal, forcing nearby cars to swerve toward the curbs. Cold sweat broke out on Nikita’s back — it became clear that the driver had no intention of slowing down before Nika’s foreign car.
“Brake!” he pounded on the horn, but his wife continued laughing into the phone, waving a free hand.
Seconds compressed like a coiled spring. Even if he managed to squeeze in between the bus and her car, a collision with a concrete wall was inevitable. In the final moment, he floored the accelerator, directing his bumper into the side of the van. His last memory was of the machine tipping over and a searing relief, then — bottomless darkness.
When he came to, he squinted against the harsh light of the lamps. Through the haze he heard Nika’s sobbing: “Nick, how could you?”
“Van… was headed… straight for you…” — the words came out in hoarse fragments.
She recoiled, her gaze turning icy: “You’re crazy! He would have swerved!”
He pretended to be asleep while his wife’s heels pounded down the corridor. Two weeks in the hospital turned into a living nightmare. Mysterious injections caused tingling in his legs, yet he couldn’t control his limbs. The surgeon avoided his eyes: “Patience. Everything is going according to plan.”
An overheard conversation with the doctor shattered his last hopes: “Chances of recovery?…” — Nika’s voice trembled.
“It requires a convergence of a hundred factors. Almost a miracle,” — the answer hung like a heavy bell.
“So, now I’m supposed to babysit a vegetable?” — her hysteria grew louder than her words.
Nikita clenched the sheets, accepting the truth: his legs would no longer obey him. The village boy who had fled from his mother and Lena, his fiancée, to the city had now become a prisoner within four walls. Nika, who had once been enamored with his stability and income, had turned into a stranger.
The hospital discharge was another blow. He refused the wheelchair, staring for hours at a crack in the wall. When the well-dressed Nika appeared with orderlies, he laughed hoarsely: “Drive me straight to the cemetery. You’ll save on the taxi.”
Through the rearview mirror, she cast a look full of annoyance and fear. No response came.
“Nikita, please, listen without emotion.” — Nika’s voice sounded as if she were dictating instructions. “The life I dreamed of is incompatible with your… condition. The choice to save me was yours. My choice is not to bury myself alive. The city, the apartment — there’s no longer a place for you there. I won’t file for divorce; perhaps I’ll visit sometimes. I’ll take control of the firm — I know all the ins and outs. I hope we can avoid further outbursts.”
He gripped the armrests of his chair and nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Where… are you taking me?” — he asked hoarsely, diverting his gaze from her manicure, which glittered in a sunbeam.
“To my mother.” — She clicked the clasp of her purse and retrieved a compact mirror. “Let her take care of you.”
“Does your mother know?” — he fixed his gaze on the back of her head.
“We’re at odds with her. You understand.” — Her shoulders twitched all at once.
“She doesn’t even know about the accident!” — his voice broke. “This is a shock for her!”
Nika bit her lip and floored the accelerator. He clutched his phone — too afraid to dial his mother’s number. The village greeted them with silence, broken only by the cawing of crows.
“We’ve arrived.” — She got out without looking back, pointing to a bag in the trunk. “I bought a chair with an electric drive. Modern. But your mother… I don’t want to see her.”
He sat by the roadside, watching as her car faded into the dust. The bag slipped on the asphalt, but he lacked the strength to pick it up. He froze by the gate — how could he explain his collapse to his mother?
“Grandma, don’t worry!” — a cheerful voice startled him. On the porch, a little girl in a calico dress appeared and then vanished inside the house. Moments later, his mother appeared, embracing him with trembling arms and weeping into his chest: “Everything will be alright, my son. Everything…”
Those words melted the ice in his chest. He noticed Dasha, creeping behind the door: “Mom, who is that strict assistant?”
The woman caught her breath: “Dasha… Lena’s daughter.” — In a hushed tone she added, “Born after you left. Don’t mention it yet…”
The world swayed. A double blow — paralysis and a daughter he never knew. He stared at the little girl, noticing her resemblance to Lena at fifteen.
“Nikita…” — a voice behind him made him turn. Lena stood holding a basket of apples, her eyes shining with a moist glimmer. “Remember how we swore never to give up?”
He laughed, recalling the fable about frogs in a jug. The words caught in his throat as Dasha ran up, wrapping her arms around his neck: “Dad, we’ll fix you! I promise!”
Tears began to fall on their own. In the window, shadows flickered — Lena and his mother, whispering through their sobs: “Found… returned…”
A month later, he sold the firm to an assistant, arranging an installment plan. He invested the funds in an online business — designing doors while lounging on the veranda. Nika, upon learning of the sale, staged a scandal, but the divorce papers were already at the notary.
“I’m getting married,” he told a friend as he drove onto the porch. “Can you imagine, I have a daughter!”
“Daddy, you lied!” — Dasha stamped her feet, hurt in her eyes. “Why did you keep quiet?”
“I was wondering what kind of father I was…” — he dismissed the comment with a wave.
The little girl clung to him like a kitten: “You taught us: the most important thing is right here!” — she poked his chest with her little hand.
From inside came a soft sobbing — Lena was wiping away tears, clutching a wedding dress to her chest. The air smelled of apples and bird cherry. Life, it seemed, was just beginning.
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