The Hour of the False Verdict

The shadow cast by the tall poplar outside had already split the yard in two, the light and darkness dividing the small, well-kept space—a perfect visual metaphor for the crisis—when the worst moment in sixteen years of the Beketovs’ life together began. The air in the living room was thick, stagnant with stale cigarette smoke and the invisible weight of a thousand unsaid words. Artyom Viktorovich, his temples throbbing and the veins cording the backs of his hands, pressed them to his skull as if he could physically squeeze the impending disaster away. His usual commander’s stare was turned inward, helpless. Across from him, Lilya sat rigidly, folded in on herself, nervously worrying the frayed hem of her favorite old knitted cardigan. Her world—tidy, predictable, and meticulously swept clean—was violently caving in, and the silent detonator of this apocalypse was sitting between them, eyes glued to the patterned floral rug.

Their daughter. Ariana. Their quiet, withdrawn Ariana, who always carried the faint, innocent scent of baby cream and old library pages—now she was harboring a secret: foreign, anxious, and corrosive.

It had begun with a trifle, a standard school medical checkup. Ariana had flatly refused to see the gynecologist. The homeroom teacher, a fussy, twitchy woman named Zinaida, called Lilya and hinted at “odd and quite inappropriate behavior.” Alarm bells ringing, Lilya attempted a gentle, probing conversation over tea and her signature raspberry jam. Ariana simply stared fixedly at her cup, her fingers blanching white around the spoon, and offered absolute silence.

Then, the evidence was produced—a single, neatly folded slip from a private medical clinic, pretentiously named Eden. It wasn't a certificate; it was a devastating verdict. The slip cited a gestational age of ten weeks. The formal diagnosis read like mockery of their reality: “Physiological intrauterine pregnancy.”

Artyom read the paper once, then twice, and as if moving underwater, slowly sank back into his armchair. His pupils instantly snapped to chilling pinpoints.

“Explain this to me,” he demanded, his voice low and grating, like a rusty hinge screaming in the wind. “Who is he?”

Ariana shook her head once, sharply, without lifting her eyes. Her long, dark lashes threw heavy shadows across cheeks that looked almost translucent. She seemed one breath away from completely evaporating under the immense pressure of the question.

“It was entirely my decision. He has absolutely nothing to do with it,” she whispered. But there was a shocking metallic hardness in that whisper—a tempered steel Lilya had never heard in her daughter’s voice before.

“Covering for a scoundrel!” Artyom’s fist slammed down onto the armrest; the antique crystal vase on the nearby shelf quivered violently. His hand instinctively went for his pack of Belomor cigarettes. “I’ll— I’ll grind him to powder! He’ll rot in prison! You will tell me his name. Now!”

“Artyom, no! The smoke… it’s dangerous and harmful!” Lilya snatched the pack out of his hand without conscious thought, her voice shaking uncontrollably. She was already defending—not her teenage daughter, but an abstract grandchild. A descendant. Someone not yet real who had already irrevocably upended everything they knew.

“And how in God’s name did you not notice?” He swung that furious, helpless gaze onto his wife. “Right under your nose! You constantly assured me she’s always home on time, she never runs around!”

“I’m so terribly sorry,” Lilya murmured, her eyes cast down. Guilt—corrosive and hot—raced like fire through her veins. “I… I never would have suspected. She’s our little girl…”

“So you still won’t tell me his name?” Artyom leaned in until his immense shadow completely swallowed Ariana. “I will find out. I will uncover every single thing. And he won’t know what hit him. I swear it.”

“Dad, please don’t,” she said, with a calm that sounded strangely detached from the moment.

“Then he can marry you! Provide for you and your…” He fumbled for a less offensive word. “Brood!”

“Artyom!” Lilya nearly leapt out of her chair. “She is our daughter! And that is our grandchild, in case you’ve conveniently forgotten the meaning of that word!”

“I don’t want to get married,” Ariana said, shaking her head again. “Not now. Not like this.”

“And that’s exactly right, sweetheart,” Lilya rushed in, darting a nervous, desperate glance at her raging husband. “Your father and I will take care of absolutely everything. We’ll sort it out… He’ll be like a son to us. Or a daughter! You always wanted a little sister, Arisha?”

Artyom stared at Lilya as if she were a complete stranger. Disgust twisted his handsome features into a knot.

“Have you completely lost your mind, Lilya? Wake up!”

“Don’t, Mom,” Ariana said, finally lifting her eyes—huge, storm-colored, and utterly bottomless. “I can’t lie to him for the rest of my life. I can’t watch him call you Mom and Dad while I’m… the sister.”

Something in that piercing look made Lilya’s hopes crumple inside. Something that hinted at a truth far darker than a mere pregnancy.

“Ariana, you are still a child yourself!” Lilya cried; the hot, acrid tears finally spilled down her cheeks. “School, university… Your whole life is ahead of you! With a baby, you’ll absolutely bury it all! Miserable, draining work, constant fatigue, illnesses! And no decent man will ever agree to marry you!”

“I don’t need one!” Ariana flung the words toward the window, toward the lowering sun.

“You’ll have the baby at Aunt Sveta’s place in Reutov,” Lilya pushed on, blotting her face and forcing herself to steady her nerves. “She’ll get you into a good, private maternity ward. Quiet. Discrete. For now, count on us.”

She threw a defiant, resolute look at her husband. He only stared defeatedly into the choked ashtray.

When Ariana went out to the local shop for bread—a trivial, sudden need—silence detonated in her place. Artyom opened fire on Lilya.

“You spoiled her! Raised her like some fairytale princess, protected from reality! That’s what your permissiveness got us!”

“And what about you?!” Lilya snapped back, backing toward the sideboard. “You carried her around like fine porcelain! ‘Daddy’s princess!’ Don’t you dare dump all the blame on me! If you were home more often, maybe we wouldn’t be standing here right now!”

“And why do you even need this… grandchild?” he shouted, his self-control gone. “Why? You’re forty-two! You’ll never manage the exhaustion! Your back, your failing health!”

“Thanks for the age reminder!” Lilya instantly flared, the arrow sinking into her most painful, private insecurity. “Plenty of women my age are just starting their lives over! Maybe I even hoped… to have one of my own, a second chance!”

Artyom stopped with his mouth agape. The unlit cigarette drooped from his fingers.

“Really?” he rasped, his voice unexpectedly softened, almost tender. “Lilyush… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean the age. It’s just… this is so hard. And your back…”

“Leave me alone,” she turned away from him—then heard the unmistakable scratch of a match and exploded again. “And don’t you dare smoke in here! Go to the stairwell. Now!”

“Aye-aye,” he saluted, absurdly. Despite her fury, a choked, involuntary smile tugged at her mouth. He instantly caught it and exhaled inwardly, a sliver of relief escaping. She never stayed angry for very long. It was his greatest salvation.

---

The Investigation and the Erasure

The secret didn’t last even a full day. Ariana’s best friend—freckled, jittery Snezhana—couldn’t possibly hold an atom bomb in her pocket, much less this gossip. By evening, the entire school, from the timid first-graders to the smug vice principal, was whispering that “Beketova got knocked up.” They’d snickered at Ariana before for her shyness and her slight “baby fat”; now the cruelty went absolutely total. Fingers pointed, filthy, whispered jokes flew, and one day, diapers and jars of baby purée mysteriously appeared dumped into her school locker. Worst of all, no one—absolutely no one—could even hazard a guess as to who the father was. Ariana didn’t hang out with boys. She didn’t go on dates. Her pregnancy looked like an inexplicable, taunting immaculate conception hurled directly at logic.

Grinding his teeth, Artyom immediately greased the right palms to get her switched to home instruction under a neat, fabricated diagnosis: “severe nervous exhaustion.”

Behind everyone’s backs, he launched his own frantic, desperate investigation. He ran through every likely male in a five-block radius—punk neighbors, swaggering upperclassmen, young machinists from the nearby plant. He even consulted a private eye in a threadbare trench coat, whose mustache looked like a broom, and who quoted a fee that could have easily bought a new car. Artyom spat and tried another tack: a sizable reward—smaller by threefold, but still tempting—for anyone who would convincingly name the “bastard.”

Hell broke loose. His phone glowed red hot. He took time off work just to sit by the phone, fielding the calls.

Bounty hunters descended like opportunistic crows. They named Sergeys-who-drink, Vityas-the-rockers, the medical student from next door—none of them with a shred of actual proof. The calls all followed the same demoralizing script:

— “Hello, you the one paying the reward?” a chirpy teen voice would ask.

— “Possibly,” Artyom would say, drilling the receiver with his intensity.

— “Half up front.”

— “You get all of it only when I know you’re not lying.”

The line would immediately click dead. Sometimes a “witness” actually appeared. One swore he saw Ariana kissing a dark-haired guy in a leather jacket in the stairwell. Another swore she met secretly with a married swimming coach.

— “Too bad I didn’t have a camera!” one lamented to Artyom. “Would’ve snapped a pic for the money!”

— “When exactly was that?” Artyom asked, pencil ready.

— “Two months ago.”

Two months ago, according to the Eden paper, Ariana was already ten weeks pregnant. Artyom hung up and immediately lit another cigarette. The ashtray looked like a tiny, overflowing cemetery.

Days into this agonizing, fruitless process, Irina called.

— “I told you never to call here,” he hissed, his palm cupped tightly over the receiver.

— “You’ve completely forgotten about me,” she drawled, her voice spoiled and thick as cream. “No visits, no calls…”

— “Not now,” he said, a cold, sickening creep of fear running down his back.

— “Artyom, who is it?” Lilya stood silently in the doorway, her face pale, bruised by endless sleepless nights.

— “No one important,” he lied smoothly, his throat thudding a mile a minute. “What’s wrong, Lilya?”

— “I asked you not to smoke in here.” She pointed accusingly at the overflowing ashtray. “Quit this filth immediately.”

— “Sorry, Lilyush… Nerves, you know.” He crushed the butt out aggressively.

The phone gave a dying croak—an incoming text message. From Irina.

Lilya’s brow lifted questioningly.

— “What was that?”

— “Aleksandr Ivanych,” he lied, appalled by his own utter helplessness. “Inviting me fishing this weekend.”

He snuck a terrified look at the screen: So I’m absolutely nothing to you, then?

— “You’re getting worse at lying, Artyom,” Lilya said quietly, and left him standing there in a thick, suffocating fog of shame.

“Lilya! Lilyushka!” He hurried after her. “I have never lied to you! Never!”

— “Haven’t you?” She turned; in her eyes, he saw not anger, but a profound, unplumbed fatigue. “My heart has known the truth for a long while now.”

— “No! You are the only woman in my life,” he blurted out, seizing her hands desperately.

— “Ah, you sly fox.” She wagged a tired finger without any heat. “Just watch yourself, Artyom…”

On Monday, he left for work early. He had to see Irina, to end it—for good and with finality. Climbing to her apartment, he rehearsed the words, desperately sanding off the sharp edges of his treachery and cowardice.

He rang their secret code: two short, one long. No answer. He was already savoring the relief of walking away, of being free, when the door suddenly swung open. A massive, sleepy lump of a man stood there in baggy boxers and a stained tank top.

— “Whaddya want, old man?” he yawned loudly.

Behind him, Irina’s face was pale, pinched with sudden, cold fear. Her hands were clasped tightly as if in prayer.

— “Is Aleksandr Ivanych home?” Artyom asked, finding his footing instantly.

— “Nobody by that name lives here,” the hulk grunted, and slammed the door with a final, echoing crash.

Thank God, Artyom thought, heading downstairs, feeling oddly light. The affair had been a corrosive weight on him from the very first clandestine meeting. Now, he was clean. He was free.

On his way home, he stopped at the fanciest shop in the district and bought Lilya the expensive French perfume she had eyed all year. He added a dramatic, blood-red bouquet and a bottle of celebratory champagne.

— “What is all this?” Lilya asked at the door, genuinely puzzled. “Are we celebrating something I forgot?”

— “Felt like making you happy, Lilyush,” he said, kissing her cheek with true affection.

— “A celebration?” Ariana echoed from her doorway.

— “For you too, sunshine.” He handed her a large, heavy box of Belgian truffles. “Your favorite.”

— “What are you doing?” Lilya nudged him sharply with the bouquet. “Chocolate is a strong allergen! She shouldn’t be having it right now!”

— “I thought… while it’s still early days…”

— “Sweetheart, what did the doctor say?” Lilya perked up, her mind instantly back on the future. “When can I speak to them? We need a detailed plan!”

— “Mom, a parent only comes if the doctor sends you for an abortion,” Ariana said quietly.

— “Ptui-ptui-ptui, don’t you dare jinx it!” Lilya spat over her shoulder, quickly making a sign of the cross. “And the chocolates—are they strictly allowed?”

— “They’re allowed,” Ariana nodded.

Then came the impossible, the unexpected miracle: Ariana came over and wrapped her arms around both parents at once, pressing her face into them. They stood like that—tangled in arms, flowers, and boxes—more genuinely a family than they had been in years. They sat down at the kitchen table; a fragile, trembling truce hovered, shimmering between them.

— “Your father and I will move into your room,” Lilya said dreamily, pouring tea with a steady hand. “It’s the sunny one. We’ll give you and the baby our big bedroom. Your father has… perfumed it up a bit, but they do ozonation now. We’ll do a complete Euro-renovation!”

— “I’ll handle it,” Artyom cut in, his voice firm with renewed purpose. “New wallpaper, stretch ceiling… Honey, you’ll pick the wallpaper—little bears or little bunnies?”

— “Oh God, I’m so happy,” Lilya clasped her hands, tears of joy stinging her eyes. “Last night I dreamed I was rolling a pram… such a baby inside! A little dumpling! By the way, when’s the ultrasound? When do we get to learn the sex?”

Ariana chewed slowly, her eyes fixed on the wall behind them.

— “I don’t think it’ll be any time soon.”

— “What do you mean?” Lilya bristled, confused. “They can easily tell by four months!”

— “Mom. Dad.” Ariana lowered her gaze into her cup. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I have to tell you something… I’m not pregnant.”

Silence fell—thick, ringing, absolute, and far worse than any shouting. Lilya froze with the tray suspended in her hands.

— “Not pregnant?” she breathed, her face draining of color. “What happened? Did you…?”

— “There is no baby,” Ariana said without looking up. “There never was one. I made it up completely. The clinic slip—I bought it in the metro. It’s a fake.”

Artyom nearly dropped the expensive champagne bottle.

— “What?!” his voice cracked into an incredulous falsetto.

— “And the doctor who signed it?” Lilya clutched the last, desperate straw of hope.

— “There was no doctor. I’m sorry.”

And then it all clicked agonizingly into place for Lilya—why the girl had fought so hard against going to the clinic together, why she had so skillfully ducked all talk of tests and appointments.

“Why?” Lilya’s voice shook with loss. The child she’d already cradled in her mind—named, loved, rocked—was nothing but smoke. “Why would you do this to us?”

— “I wanted you and Dad to be together again,” Ariana said, her voice steadier now, laced with a strange maturity. “To stop fighting. For Dad… to come home.”

Lilya stared at her, uncomprehending.

— “But we… we didn’t fight that much,” she said slowly, her voice laced with confusion. “I even bought you a book—The Most Beautiful Names. I thought we’d choose together…”

— “I’m sorry,” Ariana whispered, finally meeting their stunned, scraped-out faces. “I didn’t know you needed him that much… If you want, I’ll…”

— “No,” Artyom barked, the word ringing like a non-negotiable order. “Everything in its time. Tomorrow—back to school. I’ll call your homeroom teacher first thing.”

— “But—”

— “No buts.”

Ariana left the kitchen, her head bowed in final defeat.

Lilya watched her go and said nothing for a long minute.

— “And I’m a fool,” she murmured at last. “I even noticed she’d lost weight… and she should have been gaining…”

Artyom went to her and tried to take her in his arms; she deliberately moved away.

— “Don’t despair, Lilya. We’ll have grandkids. We absolutely will.”

— “What did she mean?” Lilya lifted her gaze. There were no tears now, only a cold, piercing question in her eyes. “‘So that Dad would come home’? What exactly am I supposed to know, Artyom?”

Artyom dropped heavily into a chair. The hour had finally come.

— “I meant to tell you,” he coughed, his voice dry. “I was afraid you’d never, ever forgive me. One day… our daughter saw me. With another woman. I promised her I’d end it immediately. And… I didn’t.”

Lilya stilled, turning to stone right before his eyes.

— “Leave, Artyom,” she said at last, her voice strangled and utterly foreign to him. “I don’t want to see you again.”

— “I won’t leave.”

— “Then I’ll go.” She stood up to walk out, but he quickly stepped in front of her, blocking the exit.

— “Did you see what she did? Do you finally understand why? I can’t leave. Who knows what desperate measure she’ll attempt next? It’s completely over with that woman. For good. For you. For her. Forgive me.”

Lilya left the kitchen without uttering another word.

He hoped, as he always did, that she would thaw quickly, that her legendary forgiveness would come. Not this time. For three long days, she did not speak to him. Jokes, gentle jabs, attempts at conversation—she simply walked out of the room in silence. On the fourth day, utterly desperate, he told a stupid, self-deprecating joke about a tailor; she smiled faintly—the tiniest, briefest tug at the corner of her mouth. It was enough.

Riding that tiny, precarious victory, he arranged a small spectacle. He called the old pals who’d once set the district buzzing with their VIA “Samotsvety” (The Gemstones), and coaxed them over to his yard.

At precisely nine o'clock, the quiet courtyard suddenly filled with the sound of acoustic guitars and Artyom’s cracked but earnest baritone:

“I am here, Inezilia,

I’m here beneath your window.

All Seville is gathered,

In darkness and in slumber…”

Balcony by balcony, sleepy heads appeared. Passersby stopped on the sidewalk, grinning widely at the unexpected concert.

“Filled with all valor,

Wrapped in my cloak…” he sang, his voice splitting loudly on the high note, forcing him to cough.

One of the musicians slid in smoothly, covering for him:

“With guitar and sword,

I’m here beneath your window!”

Applaud, cheers, and whistles fluttered from the illuminated balconies. Lilya did not appear.

— “Inezilia, for God’s sake, come out!” someone slurred loudly from the tipsy crowd. “The man’s trying! Hey, you witch!”

Back inside the apartment, Artyom sagged with defeat. He had done everything he knew how to do. He decided he had lost her. Late that night, when Lilya was already in bed, he quietly stepped into the dark bedroom.

— “Lilya,” he whispered into the darkness, “I must have hurt you too much. You’re right. You deserve far better than me. Tomorrow I’ll leave.”

The covers rustled softly.

— “Get in bed, troubadour,” she snickered sleepily.

Lilya’s dream came true. Less than a year later, she was rolling an elegant, expensive pram through the park. Not with a grandchild—but with their second child, late and deliriously longed-for. Everyone was happy, the rift repaired. Happiest of all was Ariana, who fell instantly in love with her little sister and chose the name herself—Bogdana (meaning "God-given"). “God-given,” she said, rocking the baby gently. And Artyom and Lilya silently agreed. Sometimes, the truest, most precious miracle is born from the most artificial, most desperate lie—like lighting an artificial sun on a leaden, cloudy day just to force the clouds to dissipate.