I wont abandon my daughter.The Story
So you wont take the girl?
No. And Id advise you, Bor. You have no idea what a newborn is. I do. I raised three children, and they only emerged from diapers
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I wont leave her! he slammed a small faceted glass onto the table.
Borya had had too much to drink. Now he sat, hunched over the table covered with a wipeddown canvas in his sisters house, gripping the glass tightly.
Quiet, will you! The children are sleeping! We told you, we told you! And you Orphan, so therell be no motherinlaw, thank God! Thats what youre bragging about, whispered Zinaida.
What does that have to do with anything?
It does. If there were even one old woman, things would be different. But not
Borias reason for drinking was simple, and it wasnt a habit only the second time since his wifes death. The first time had been right after the funeral.
His Lida died during childbirth more precisely, after it.
A nurse who had received a chocolate bar knocked her wornout shoes on the stairs, then returned a moment later.
Your girl, dad. Shes threehundred grams, a big one.
Girl? Borys suddenly went pale, a smile spreading on his face. Hed expected a son. All men want sons. He stammered, And Lida? When will she?
The nurse, irritated, threw up her hands.
I dont know either. The baby was in the pelvis. They say theres still bleeding. Come tomorrow, alright?
Borya dismissed the bleeding as a normal part of any delivery. Men rarely understand the details of childbirth.
He arrived that evening, the next day, after work.
He walked along a fence flanked by dry acacias with brown twisting pods, under wet rowan with red clusters, past poplars smelling of autumn. He looked at the windows, smiled, hoping Lida had already risen and would see him coming.
His bag wasnt heavy. The guys had told him what to bring: fresh bread, boiled eggs, a couple of apples, and grapes. At that time, nursing mothers werent yet restricted.
He lingered in the hallway, receiving no explanation, while he slipped his black, machineshopstained hands into his pockets.
At last a doctor emerged.
We did everything we could, but the bleeding was severe. Complications after childbirth sometimes happen. Our condolences
Boris listened, clueless about her meaning.
Pale as a sheet, he sank onto the cot, was given a glass of water and some drops. He drank everything obediently, then looked up.
Did she die?
Yes, your wife passed away. Accept our condolences.
He nodded, finally understanding. An odd embarrassment washed over him as the crowd gathered. He rose, headed for the door.
Im leaving Tell her, he gestured toward his bag, Oops! he grabbed the bag again, Im going
Wait. Well keep the girl a while longer, dont worry. Your wifes body will be in the morgue. When will you be back?
The girl? Oh, he was still mentally separating his wife from the child, having brought only one person here, Is she alive?
Yes, alive and healthy. The girl is fine, just just Anyway, focus on the funeral, and the child will stay with us.
Funeral? He was completely lost, Right, what do you need?
The reality of the situation crashed over him at home. Sharp pain struck, stabbed his heart, gnawed at his mind, then retreated, gathered strength, and struck again.
Lida Lida his Lida she refused to let his soul rest. He couldnt protect couldnt protect
Boris was born and raised in the village of Baranovo, worked at the collective farm, and stayed single for a long time because nothing fell into place.
After his mother died, he moved into his sisters house. She was always sharptongued, perpetually tired by family duties, and lived in a dimlit world.
When he was summoned to the Zarechnoe plant, he left. There, at the factory, he met Lida.
She was young, modest, friendly. She grew up in an orphanage, but now lived with her grandmother in the city. Lida had come to the city after the orphanage and vocational school.
Boris moved into the grandmothers place as well. The old woman was irritable, worn out by a life once filled with a drinking daughter and her companions. Their home was essentially a dilapidated annex attached to another farmstead: two tiny rooms, a windowless kitchen with an old, fadedbyLida bathtub, and a small veranda.
The house itself was sick, infected by some ravenous fungus or beetle that ate floors and lower walls. Chairs and tables sank into the floor. No matter how much heat he added, the place stayed cold. He tried to replace the floor, fought the creature as best he could, but it kept renewing its damage.
The building stood in an old district near the market, tucked into a quiet deadend that only locals and occasional drunkards from the market used. A tavern was not far away.
Perhaps thats why Lidas mother had once turned to drink, and why Lida abhorred the smell of alcohol from childhood.
When Boris met Lida, he swore off drinking. He knew a sob could follow.
The grandmother, seeing his diligence, tolerated the soninlaw. Changes began in the house; the abandoned granddaughter started to revive.
Eventually, Boris even carried the frail, fortykilogram old woman to the bathtub. She lingered for six months and then quietly passed away.
Now the factory latheoperator Boris Zakharov was left alone in that house. Soon, he was to receive a newborn daughtershe was already two months old, but could no longer stay in the maternity ward.
He asked his sister for help; she refused. She cited work, a modest salary of one hundred rubles, and three young men she supported, leaving little for him. He tried to contribute money, but a hundred rubles was a lot for him, and she still wouldnt agree.
Lida had only ever come alive with him. She wasnt as shy or repressed as she seemed; she eventually opened up about her past, revealing that at age three she had been beaten in the orphanage by a caregiver who pulled her hair and locked her in a storeroom to teach her silence.
It was the caretaker, not other boys, she told Boris. Shed yank my hair, drag me into a closet, and keep me there until I learned to be quiet. Ive hated orphanages ever since. My children will never end up there.
His sister Zinaida kept urging him to send the child back to the orphanage, claiming it would be better cared for, and perhaps he could later reclaim her. Boris remembered Lidas story and refused.
At the start of the year, Boris got a months leave. He had to decide what to do with the girl within that time.
An elderly nurse looked at him with a mix of pity and irritation.
Where are you reaching with those hands? Theyre black This isnt a doll, its a child!
Its not dirt that washes away Im a latheoperator.
The moment you clean them, Ill hand over the child. Get some soap.
Soap didnt work; she gave him a medical solution, the darkness faded, and his hands became cleaner.
Do you even know how to swaddle? Can you bathe a baby? Can you manage a childs kitchen? she rattled, wrapping the girl, explaining the basics of feeding and bathing, Find a grandmother or someone older; you cant do it alone. What will you call her?
He already has a name. We got a birth certificate. My wife wanted a boySashaso we registered her as Alexandra Borisovna.
The little Alexandra, then, the nurse said, lifting the swaddled bundle. The paperworks done, milks ready, go. Call a doctor if anything happens.
A bottle of cold milk clinked in his bag. He stepped out into the frosty street. The girl squinted against the bright winter light, her tiny mouth opened, a faint whimper escaped.
He felt her warm body in his arms and, for the first time, truly fearedshe was alive, not a doll. He shielded her face and walked toward the bus stop, the snow crunching underfoot.
She fell asleep in his arms. Boris rode the bus in a daze, wondering what awaited him at home: feeding, changing, caring, and figuring out how to live.
He still hadnt grown attached to the little worm, though she was cute. Her cheeks, once flushed, were now pale. He called her simply the girl, not daughter, not Alexandra, not Shurajust the girl, as if she were someone elses.
On the bus, his hands relaxed, and the girl slipped from his grip.
A man, youll drop the child! a woman shouted.
Boris jerked the baby back to his chest; her lips twitched, a sleepy smile formed. He held her tighter.
At home he feared changing her, terrified of her cries. He fed her all the milk from the hospital, then, after a frantic night, rushed her to the tiny childrens kitchen that existed in the building.
The kitchen was closed, but the lone worker there gave him a couple of bottles, telling him to return daily at eleven.
Days passed and Boris still struggled. The babys endless crying, her tiny fists and legs flailing, left him thinking perhaps an orphanage would be kinderno one beats babies there.
The empty crib stood while she slept beside him.
Why does she scream so much? asked a neighbor, with whom hed previously quarreled over Lidas grandmother.
I dont know! It feels like Im doing it on purpose! Boris snapped.
The neighbor kept offering advice, but it helped little.
He was exhausted, sleepless. A visit to the clinic yielded some antigas drops, applied to her stomach, but they did nothing.
Will it always be like this? No sleep, no breath
One afternoon, his coworkers barged in, noisy and cheerful, accompanied by Kateryna, the shopfloor clerk.
Here to visit dad!
They stumbled into the cramped annex.
Hey, youve been gone too long, brother! Come back
The girl woke from the clamor, began to wail. Boris scooped her up, but Kateryna snatched her away, whispering, Watch out, dad! Youll grow her into a beauty, no suitors will come.
A modern red stroller was wheeled in. From the whole crew, Vasily Petrovich handed over a tied bundle.
Inside were fresh blankets, new swaddles, knitted booties, hats, pants, dressesclothes Boris never imagined a baby would need.
The next morning Boris awoke unusually rested, optimism blooming. The girl slept peacefully against his shoulder, a faint smile on her lips.
He realized his earlier mistakes: hed fed her only when she cried, tried to put her to sleep constantly to find peace, got irritated by her fussing, and handled the diapers haphazardly. Hed only bathed when absolutely necessary.
He thought of his lathe work: setup, turning, tool work, inspection. Parenting, too, required a sequenceexhaust, empty, feed, sleep. As a fourthclass turner, he sometimes handled the most complex orders.
Could he handle this?
When the girl finally woke, kicking her legs, he didnt immediately thrust a bottle. He unfolded her, slipped on her booties, and began to play. She happily grasped his finger, sucking on his palm.
For the first time since his wifes funeral, Boris laughed out loud.
Oh, Shura! Clever little thing, he said, finally using a name.
She kicked and placed a tiny hand on the swaddle.
Thanks, dear. Couldnt you have warned me? Id have hidden a newspaper, he joked.
She squealed with glee, kicking her booties, and the room filled with a mess she clearly didnt need to make.
Shura, then, he muttered, heading to the store. The clerk, having seen her before, let him skip the line because the girls dad had a funeral. She smiled, recalling his story.
He realized the girl loved him, that she responded to his songs, that she could be his companion.
He looked at himself in the mirror for the first time during his leave, scratched his stubble, thought, Why should she love me? He shaved.
He imagined her growing upshe would become his adult daughter. The realization struck him: this child was truly his, and she would stay with him his whole life.
He felt that the universe had revealed two great mysteries: death and new life. From then on, everything he did was devoted to raising his daughter.
One night, drunken men began loitering in the alley, dragging crates, boards, and making raucous songs. Boris thought, My daughter will have to go to school someday.
He chased them away with a fist, promising to keep the area clear. The drunks kept returning, so he routinely patrolled, hanging laundry, watching the fence, and confronting any new gatherings.
Weeks later he took the girl to the nearest kindergarten. He discovered children could enroll from three months old. The centre ran a fiveday schedule: drop off on Monday, pick up on Friday. Unfortunately, there were no vacancies; the waiting list ran through the city council.
What took you so long? the clerk asked. You qualify for a discount as a single parent. Go to the council and demand a spot.
He went to the council, filled out a form, and left without knowing how long hed wait. Money was running thin; his leave was ending.
He thought of Kateryna, the clerk whod visited with her coworkers, whod sighed without a husband and kept the house tidy. She was a divorced mother of two.
The house needs a lady, she said, smiling, and youre a capable man. You could even warm up the place. Boris lowered his gaze.
Kateryna later brought him work orders, offered him cheap meals, and complained about her hard life. She was broadhipped, narrowwaisted, with shoulders lifted and a sharp, almost masculine face. Boris couldnt meet her gaze for more than a few seconds.
He realized he wasnt good with women, and Lida was entirely different. He sensed Kateryna might be open to a relationship, but he hesitated.
Only a week remained of his leave. He was planning to drive back to the plant and talk to Kateryna, wondering if they might live together. He imagined his future with her, even though she was still single.
One day Shuras fever spiked. He called a doctor, who arrived by noon, prescribed medication, and sent him to the pharmacy. Boris hurried to hang laundry while Shura slept, then glanced toward the alley.
Cardboard boxes and a discarded crate lay there again. A small boy, maybe five, crouched near a box, chewing reluctantly.
Hey, kid! What are you doing here?
The boy flinched, tried to run, but Boris grabbed his collar.
Stay! Dont be scared. Where are you headed? He held the boys cold, reddened hand.
From my mother.
Wheres she?
The market, the boy waved vaguely.
Lost?
I think so, the boy said, eyes wide.
If you know, show me.
Boris decided to help the boy find his mother while also getting Shuras medicine. He took the child with him, walked toward the bustling market, passing stalls of milk in glass jars, sour cream in enamel cans, cheese, butterendless rows.
A woman behind a milk stall shouted, Sanka! Sanka! Mother is losing her mind! The police are coming! A teenage boy rushed to his mothers side.
The markets chaos swirled around Boris, who cradled his daughter. A young blond woman in a white coat over a thick coat emerged, eyes watery but kind. She had a long, thick braid and a slight limp.
Mom! I wont hide anymore, a small boy named Sanka cried, running to her.
She embraced him, shaking his shoulders, muttering something about gratitude.
Thank you, she said to Boris, her deep eyes like lakes, I didnt know what to do. I once ran to the gypsies, thought theyd take me. Now I work here selling?
She explained she was a parttime market vendor, riding the train from the village because winter left no work at the collective farm. She took her son with her on weekends since the kindergarten was closed.
She offered Boris fresh milk. Heres some warm milk for you, she said, handing a liter bottle.
Boris, feeling oddly drawn to her soft voice, replied, Well come again.
She invited him back, offered a discount, and said shed be there from Wednesday to Sunday.
Later that night Shuras fever spiked again. Boris called a doctor, but the childs condition worsened, and he rushed her to the hospital himself.
Why are you panicking, dad? a pediatric nurse soothed, Kids get sick, what did you expect?
He indeed panicked. By noon they returned home, and Boris fumbled through the routine: feeding, soothing, wrapping her in blankets. The room was strewn with dirty swaddles, medicine bottles, and an unmade bed.
Then a sharp knock sounded at the door.
Whos there?
Its us and Mom!
Boris looked out; Nina, the market woman, shuffled in, clutching a goats milk jar for his daughter.
Sorry were late. We brought fresh goats milkGrateful and relieved, Boris finally felt that, after all the turmoil, he had found both a purpose and a fragile hope for his daughter’s future.
