Ilya’s world had always been tightly controlled. He preferred such a life—a life of order, responsibility, and clear boundaries. But the silence in the house after Masha left was not the peace he had dreamed of. It was heavy, accusatory, and relentless.
Memories of their last argument kept swirling in his mind. Masha stood with her arms crossed, her voice cold.
« I’m not going to introduce you to my boyfriend, Dad. I’m 18! I don’t need your permission to date. »
The argument escalated, and she left, slamming the door. Ilya convinced himself he was right—he was protecting her. But as the days turned into weeks, and the silence of her absence became unbearable, he realized he couldn’t live like this anymore.
One day, while walking past a café near his office, he heard a familiar laugh cutting through the noise. He turned sharply and saw her—Masha. She was sitting in the corner, her hand resting on her round belly.
Ilya froze. Pregnant. His little girl was pregnant.
Sitting across from her was Yuri—his best friend of the last twenty years. Yuri, the man to whom Ilya had entrusted everything. A storm of confusion and anger churned inside him. Without thinking, he stormed into the café.
“Masha!” he growled, making her flinch. Silence fell over the café as everyone turned to watch the unfolding scene. “What the hell is going on?”
Her face turned pale, and she instinctively covered her belly. Yuri stood up, raising his hands in a gesture of calm.
“Ilya, let’s talk about this,” Yuri began, but Ilya was too far gone.
“Is this the guy you didn’t want me to meet?” Ilya growled, pointing at Yuri. “This? My best friend?”
“It’s not what you think!” Masha whispered, her voice trembling.
“Not what I think?” Ilya exploded. “You’re sitting here, pregnant, with the man I trusted more than anyone. What else should I think?”
Yuri stepped forward, trying to ease the situation, but his foot caught the edge of a chair. He stumbled backward, and the café seemed to hold its breath as he fell to the floor. His head hit the ground with a dull thud, and Yuri lay motionless.
Masha screamed, dropping to her knees beside him.
“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted, but Masha was already reaching for her phone.
Ilya stood frozen, the weight of what had just happened crashing down on him.
Hours later, Ilya and Masha were sitting in the hospital hallway. The tension between them was unbearable. No one spoke until Masha broke the silence.
“You misunderstood everything,” she said, her voice shaking. “The baby isn’t his.”
Ilya turned to her, confusion and guilt swirling in his eyes.
“Then what’s going on, Masha?”
She took a deep breath.
“The baby’s from Dima. We were together when I left. But when I told him I was pregnant, he left. I had nowhere to go, so I went to Yuri. He let me stay with him and helped me figure out what to do. That’s all, Dad. He just helped me.”
Ilya’s chest tightened. The anger that had driven him before now seemed hollow and misplaced. He had blamed his best friend—his daughter—for what? For pride? For control?
When Suzanna, Yuri’s wife, arrived, she was in a panic. The doctor explained that Yuri had a subdural hematoma and needed urgent surgery. Those words hit Ilya like a hammer, and the reality of what his anger had caused became clear.
Suzanna’s voice trembled as she asked, “What about the cost? We don’t have savings for something like this.”
Ilya didn’t hesitate. He went home and gathered everything he could—savings, emergency funds, spare change—anything to cover the surgery. Handing an envelope to Suzanna, he said, “He’s my best friend. This is the least I can do.”
