—Why are you so early?— Alex murmured, fumbling with his shirt buttons, which he’d fastened inside out. But Marina wasn’t listening. She stood frozen in the hallway, fingers clenched so tight they ached, staring at the red heels by the door. Not just any shoes—they were Inna’s, her closest friend. She knew them instantly. She’d seen them in too many photos, beneath wine glasses, under café tables. But here, in her own flat? Never.
It had started at work that morning. A sudden wave of nausea, her vision flickering. At first, she blamed exhaustion, stress. Then her coworker, Annie, leaned in and whispered,
—You’re not pregnant, are you?
—Don’t be ridiculous,— Marina scoffed, but her stomach twisted. She *knew*. Twenty minutes later, locked in the office loo, she stared at the test—two stark lines.
She didn’t remember walking to her boss’s office. Didn’t remember leaving. Only this: racing home to tell Alex, imagining his face, his arms around her, tears of joy. But then—
The key turned. The lights flicked on. And there they were—*those* shoes. Then, muffled whispers from the bedroom. For a heartbeat, she hoped she was wrong. Some absurd mistake. But when she threw open the door, there he was—half-dressed, tangled in sheets with Inna, who clutched the fabric to her chest like a shield.
—Marina? What the hell?— Alex stammered, while Inna stared at the floor, silent.
After that—shouts, shattered glass, a silence thicker than the tears. Then, the door slammed. Emptiness. Marina sat on the wrecked floor, hands pressed to her belly, where a tiny heartbeat fluttered.
Days later, she made her choice. She wouldn’t tether herself to Alex. Wouldn’t raise a child alone. Her parents were miles away. Her friends? One fewer now. Her salary couldn’t cover nappies, let alone a nanny. So she booked the clinic.
In the waiting room, she hugged herself, eyes fixed on the wall. Terrified. She didn’t want this baby—*didn’t she?*
—Come in,— called the doctor.
She stood, stepped inside. Then her heart stopped.
—*Anthony?* Is that you?—
Her first love. Her secondary-school sweetheart. The boy whose kiss at prom had lingered in her memory like honey.
—Marina? Bloody hell!— He hugged her warmly, as if no time had passed.
They talked for ten minutes, laughing like two decades hadn’t slipped by. Then, when the air settled, he asked:
—But you’re here for a reason. What’s wrong?
She hesitated, then confessed—the betrayal, the pregnancy, the decision.
—And you’re sure you want to go through with it?— Anthony’s voice softened.
—Yes… I’m scared. I can’t do this alone.—
