Life stories 14/07/2025 10:06

My husband beat me and didn’t come to the maternity hospital; I got home on my own, shedding tears

Olya left the hospital with twins in her arms and hope in her heart—but home was not what she expected. What began with abandonment became a story of resilience, real love, and a family built from the ground up.


“Taxi to Klenovaya, number eight,” I said, carefully shifting my son into my left arm and holding my daughter snugly with my right.

The driver nodded silently, stealing a glance in the rearview mirror. Two little bundles, two ribbons — pink and blue.

Two pairs of tiny eyes staring up at me, full of unquestioning trust.

“Is their dad meeting you?” the driver asked as we pulled away.

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That Dimka hadn’t responded to a single call in three days? That the nurses exchanged quiet looks when I asked if anyone had come for us? That the only flowers in my room came from the neighbor next door?

The babies stirred. My daughter — Masha — wrinkled her nose and gave a little whimper. Artyom let out a cry a second later. Twins.

“Double the joy,” the nurses had said.

“Double the weight on my shoulders,” I thought, gently rocking them in the backseat of the old Lada.

“Want me to call someone for you?” the driver offered kindly. “I can help with the bags.”

“I’ve got it,” I said softly.

My phone buzzed again in my robe pocket. Mom. Her tenth call today. I didn’t answer. My arms were full, and so was my heart — with thoughts I didn’t want to voice.

What would I even say? That her son-in-law disappeared when it mattered most? That her grandchildren would spend their first day at home without a father?

The car stopped outside my building. I clumsily pulled out my wallet using my elbow and paid, then slowly made my way to the door. Every step tugged painfully at my lower back — a reminder of the cesarean I was still healing from.

A neighbor from the third floor poked her head out.

“Olya! You had the babies! Twins, no less! Where’s your husband?”

“He’s at work,” I said quickly, walking past her.

The key trembled in my hand. I opened the door and stopped.

His jacket wasn’t on the hook. His shoes weren’t by the wall.

But on the nightstand was a folded note.

We had put the crib together just last week — argued over what color the sides should be. I picked up the note and opened it. I knew the handwriting well. It was gentle. Familiar.

The words, though, hit like ice.

“Olya, I’m sorry. I’m not ready. Not for two at once. Not for diapers, for crying, for sleepless nights. You’re strong — you’ll get through it. But I… I can’t. Please don’t try to find me. — D.”

My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, the paper clutched in my hand. Tears streamed without asking. Hot, stinging.

Masha cried. Then Artyom. Their cries rose with mine until the air was thick with sound.

The doorbell rang. Then again. Again. Urgent.

“Olya! Open up! We know you're in there!” — Lenka’s voice — my best friend from university.

“We saw you from the window!” Katya added. “We’re coming in!”

I pulled myself up, wiped my face with my sleeve, and unlocked the door.

There they stood. My three best friends — with bags, with flowers, and with fierce determination on their faces.

Lenka pushed past me.

“Where is he?”

“He left,” I said, handing them the note.

Katya read it aloud. The room went still. Marina wrapped her arms around me. The others began sorting through the bags, helping without asking.


“Mom, why don’t we have a dad who takes us to school like the other kids?” Artyom adjusted the straps of his new backpack.

It was September 1st — the first day of school. Masha wore white bows, Artyom a small tie. Around us, families smiled and snapped photos.

I froze. I had no good answer.

Then a voice behind us said, “Because you have the coolest mom — and she’s worth two dads.”

I turned. Maxim.

The new department head. For six months, he’d been bringing me coffee, offering movie nights, asking if I needed help. Eventually, I said yes.

Tall, kind eyes, a bouquet of asters in hand.

“Uncle Max!” Masha ran to him. “You really came!”

“I promised,” he said, lifting her into his arms. “How could I miss the big day for my two favorite scholars?”

Artyom studied him with caution.

“You’re really staying? You won’t leave like...”

“Like who?” Maxim asked gently, kneeling to Artyom’s level.

“Never mind,” my son muttered.

They didn’t remember Dimka. Thankfully. But deep down, the ache of his absence lingered. I saw it in the way Artyom looked at other children and their fathers.

“You know what,” Maxim offered his hand. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll be there for all the big things. First day, last bell, graduation. And football on Saturdays. Deal?”

Artyom looked at me. I nodded. He reached out and shook the hand.

“Deal. But if you lie, I’ll hit you.”

“Artyom!” I gasped.

Maxim chuckled. “Fair enough. It’s a deal between men.”

The bell rang. The kids rushed to line up. Maxim took my hand.

“You’ve done something incredible, Olya. You raised them so well.”

“I just did what I could.”

“You’re a hero,” he whispered. “And if you’ll let me — I’d like to be here with you. For all of it.”

Seven years. That’s how long I carried everything on my own. Nighttime feedings. Fevers. First steps. First words.

My friends helped when they could. Mom came on weekends. But most of it — the crying, the worry, the decisions — rested on me.

And then came someone who didn’t ask to take over — just asked to stand beside me.

“Will you still be here when they both get the flu at the same time?” I asked, only half joking.

“I won’t go anywhere. Even if they’re covered in green antiseptic from head to toe.”

“What about when Masha refuses to wear anything but the sparkly dress she lost?”

“I’ll buy ten new ones.”

“And if Artyom gets into trouble at school?”

“I’ll teach him how to stay calm and solve it smart — and how to stand his ground when he must,” Maxim replied, gently pulling me close. “I know it’s not easy to trust again, Olya. But I’m not him.”

“I know you’ve been hurt before,” he added. “Let me show you — day by day — that I’m not going anywhere.”

Out on the school lawn, Masha spotted me and waved from the row of first graders. Artyom stood next to her, trying to look serious, but I saw the smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

My children. Raised without their biological father. But never without love.

“Look,” Maxim whispered. “She’s showing you a flower.”

I bit my lip. I wouldn’t cry. Not here, in the middle of the schoolyard.

“Mom, we love you!” Masha shouted, running to hug me at the gate. “Thank you for being with us.”

Graduation day.

Eleven years passed in the blink of an eye. Artyom was now taller than me. Masha — with her father’s eyes — had grown into a graceful, confident young woman. That father? He never returned. Not even once.

“Thanks, Mom,” Artyom said, handing me a bouquet. “For not giving up. Dad Max told us how much you went through when we were little.”

Dad.

They started calling him that about five years ago. At first with hesitation. Then with confidence.

He had earned it — not through grand gestures, but through presence. Through listening. Through patience. Through showing up — every time.

“He’s the good one for telling you,” I said, brushing away tears I couldn’t hide.

“Don’t cry!” Artyom said, hugging me. “We’ll get in — I’m going for medical school, Masha wants to study teaching.”

“I’m not crying because of that.”

“Then why?”

How do you explain that, in your eyes, they’re still the two tiny babies you brought home in a cab? That your pride in them is so big it aches? That life handed you a storm, and somehow — you made it through?

“I just love you both. More than I can say.”


Maxim met us outside with a bouquet of roses.

“Congratulations to the best mom of two graduates,” he grinned. “Olya, you did it.”

“We did it together,” Artyom corrected him. “You too… you know.”

“Thank you, son,” Maxim said, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Son.

They didn’t say it often. But when they did, it was real — rooted in years of trust. No one had to pretend. Their bond was stronger than blood.

Maxim didn’t replace anyone. He became someone. A real father — the kind who showed up to every school play, taught them how to ride bikes, and wasn’t afraid of the tougher teenage years.

“Remember in first grade,” Artyom said, grinning, “when Petka made fun of us for not having a dad? And you came to school and…”

“And had a talk with his parents,” Maxim finished. “Then you and I had a long conversation about handling things peacefully.”

“But you still taught me how to defend myself.”

“Of course. A person should always know how to stand up for family.”

Family.

Not born of perfection, but built through resilience. Not because we had to, but because we chose each other.


Dimka never returned. Not a single call. No letter. No attempts to see the children.

At first, I was angry. Then I felt sorry for him.

He missed everything: the bedtime stories, the scraped knees, the drawings on the fridge, the school awards.

“Mama, let’s go celebrate!” Masha pulled me toward the car. “Aunt Lena and Aunt Katya are already waiting at the restaurant!”

The same friends who had barged into my apartment the day I came home from the hospital. Who became aunties, godmothers, lifelines.

Before getting in, I looked back at the school. I remembered every door I had walked through with my heart pounding — parent-teacher meetings, holiday concerts, science fairs.

I remembered every tear in the principal’s office when Artyom got into trouble in fifth grade. Every beaming moment when Masha won her reading contest.

“Olya, you coming?” Maxim touched my shoulder gently.

“I am. Just… thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being brave enough to love a woman with two kids.”

“That’s not bravery,” he said, holding me close. “That’s joy. You gave me a family I didn’t know I was missing.”

We got into the car. Artyom turned on his favorite playlist. Masha chattered about summer plans. Just an ordinary family on an ordinary day.

But only I knew the road we had traveled to reach this simple, beautiful moment.

And strangely enough… I was grateful to Dimka.

Because if he hadn’t left, I might never have known how strong I could be.

I might never have found Maxim.

I might never have had this family — not the one I once imagined, but the one that’s more real than anything I could have hoped for.

Life works in unexpected ways. Sometimes it brings storms to clear your path. Sometimes it takes away to give you something better.

The important thing is: don’t give up.

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