Anya sat slumped on the couch with her hands on her stomach, anxiously anticipating her husband's return from work. She watched emptily as her breathing raised her hands slowly up and down. Her navel caved inward with every exhale, sinking into her belly like a missile. Soon her belly would swell considerably. She saw how big women got, the way the life inside them bulged.
Her chest suddenly convulsed with the beginnings of a sob, and she squeezed her eyes closed and gulped for air in tight wheezes.
It was just once, her husband had sworn. It didn't mean anything.
But how could it not?
Anya opened her eyes, and her tears pooled. She sat up, and they dripped to her belly.
We were going to make a life together, she'd said.
We still can, he'd responded. We'll leave this place. I'll never see her again. We can start a family.
Anya's eyes burned at the memory, and a twinge of pain skittered across her abdomen.
We already did, she'd told him.
What do you mean?
She'd wanted so badly for him to find out in a sweet way, not when she was wounded and angry—not when her husband's mistake made the baby seem like one, too.
Anya stood. It was cold in their home. The walls were thin and the repair man hadn't come today to fix the furnace. Especially at night when she was alone like this, it felt like the cold was an alive thing, seeping through the walls like a sinister demon. She gave a long blink, almost hoping some fiend would swallow her whole.
A louder tug in her abdomen drew her attention. Was it normal to feel pain this early? It had to be. Her womb tugged again, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought of the child and of her husband on his way home from work. She swallowed, and the tears tasted bitter like citrus rind.
She turned to the kitchen where her husband would soon drop his keys on the counter and drape his coat over the corner chair. If she were to, yet again, play their game of avoiding unpleasantness, all the lights would be turned off when he got home, and the terrible winter silence would engulf him as he searched the fridge for a supper not there. After scrounging the pantry for something to eat, he would peer into the bedroom, careful of the squeaky door, to check on his wife. He'd see her curled up in their quilt—likely sleeping but just as likely pretending—and would close the door to give her the space he thought she needed. That's how it would happen. But how long could they keep avoiding one another?
Anya shuddered. Her head felt dizzy. She grabbed her shawl from the coat rack and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her back throbbed, so she pulled up a chair and leaned wearily against the window pane as she waited.
The glass was cold on her forehead, but for a moment she didn't mind. Moonlight shone through the window like a spotlight, reflecting off the thin crust of snow outside. She sat still, gazing blankly at a snowy shrub in the garden and trying not to think lest she change her mind and hide in bed before her husband came home.
The stillness shattered when the hum of an engine sounded outside, and lights from a car mirrored off the snow in harsh blue hues. She froze, her head still pressed against the glass. Her skin was cold, but she'd forgotten how to move.
The garage door squeaked open, and she heard her husband's keys drop on the kitchen counter. She closed her eyes and held back a shiver, knowing he would soon notice her.
"You're up," he whispered from the kitchen, sounding relieved and terrified. Anya released a breath. She was terrified, too.
She peeled her forehead from the glass and cocked her head towards him. He was looking at her, studying her with timid eyes. She watched him too, noticing the tattered, rugged way his old work-suit peeked out from beneath his winter coat like the carefree boy she'd fallen in love with years ago.
"You look handsome tonight," she whispered, surprising herself.
His body shifted, eyeing her as if to test her sincerity. She met his gaze and held it, afraid he'd disappear if she turned away. Outside, the crust of snow gleamed. Anya shivered, and her womb pulsed with heat. Without thinking, her hand strayed up to the baby.
"It's cold in here," her husband said, eyes wandering to her womb.
"Yes."
"Should I get a blanket?"
She paused. "Yes."
He disappeared, returning a moment later with the quilt from the bed. She moved slowly to the couch, and he sat down tentatively beside her. He laid the quilt over their laps, and Anya hid her hands beneath the blanket to keep warm. They sat, motionless and in silence, looking out through the window at the snow.
Anya opened her mouth to speak but didn't know what to say. She closed it, searching. When the silence became too much, she turned the smallest fraction towards him. "Why does it hurt so much?" she said in barely a whisper.
"The baby?" he asked.
She shook her head despite the pain swelling in her middle and glanced at his wedding band. His face crumpled, and he bunched his left hand into a fist.
"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke, shoulders slumping beside her.
Anya's breathing hitched. She tried to speak, but her tightening throat forbade it.
"I never meant to hurt you," he whimpered.
She closed her eyes, squeezing out tears like lemons.
Her husband reached out as if to wipe her tears away, and she recoiled. "Don't touch me unless you mean it," she said reflexively. He jerked back, looking hurt. The dark room began to swallow them, but he paused, and she could hear his breathing. She felt the tug on her abdomen ease like cooling embers. His hand extended again, and she stiffened.
He grazed her arm like the softest question, and she felt him looking at her, eyes unsure and shy with regret. The couch squirmed as he scooted closer to her rigid body and pulled the blanket over her arms. Her lip trembled, and he touched her hair, pleading.
Anya didn't move. Her head was fuzzy, and she gave a hollow breath as the unwelcome pull in her lower belly returned more forcefully. She noted the snow outside and her husband's warm hand resting near the curve of her neck. She thought of the innocent life in her achy womb. There was a bitterness and a tight pang in her lungs, but she met her husband's eyes. He was crying. He looked away and, resolving to live for the new life inside her, Anya took his hand.
The room was cold enough to see their breath refract in the icy moonlight. He squeezed her fingers gently. Anya closed her eyes and tried to forget her pain. She was weary, and the sting of unshed tears burned in her sinuses. But for now, this was enough. She leaned closer to his body, and they adjusted together like familiar water droplets.
Pain swelled in her womb. Her muscles clenched as the throbbing grew until dark splotches clouded her vision and a sensation of strings yanking on her groin overcame her. She gasped and leaned away. With shaking hands, she reached her fingers under her nightgown and between her thighs. They came back damp with bright, warm blood. She met her husband's eyes.