Sasha packed his swimsuit for a beach vacation while sending his six-months-pregnant wife, Lika, to his mother’s village — to work in the vegetable garden.
“Lika, I need a break too,” he shrugged.
“And I don’t?” she asked. “I’m pregnant, not useless.”
He didn’t budge. He never did.
In the village, Lika’s mother-in-law handed her a shovel. “Bet you wore him out.”
Lika stayed silent. The sun was brutal, the labor relentless. She dug with aching limbs, whispering to her unborn child, “Just hang in there, baby…”
She overheard the gossip: “She’s lazy. We used to give birth in fields!”
When Sasha returned, tanned and glowing, he kissed her cheek and bragged about cocktails and shrimp. Lika cut him off.
“I’m leaving.”
He laughed. “Don’t be dramatic. You need me.”
“No,” she said. “I’ll find out if I don’t.”
She left. Slept peacefully at Oksana’s. For the first time, she felt free.
Sasha begged. Called. “For the baby,” he pleaded.
She replied, “Do you miss me—or just hate being alone?”
Silence.
Later, holding her newborn, Lika smiled. Sasha came back with gifts.
“You can see your son,” she said. “But I am no longer yours.”
