Page 53 of Porcelain Vows
The endearment slips out so naturally that I wonder if he realizes he’s said it.Milaya. Dear one. The same word he whispered on many of the nights that he’s taken me to his bed.
During one particularly brutal contraction, I find myself thinking of my mother. Did my father hold her hand like this when I was born? Did he wipe her brow and tell her she was strong? The thought brings tears that have nothing to do with the physical pain.
“It hurts,” I gasp, meaning more than just the labor.
“I know.” Aleksei’s eyes hold mine, and for a moment, I wonder if he understands the double meaning. “But you’re not alone.”
That’s the cruelest part. I’m not alone, but in a way, I am. The man I should hate more than anyone is the one person I can’t push away right now.
Time loses meaning as my body works to bring our daughter into the world. The sun sets outside the windows, city lights replacing natural glow. Monitors beep steadily, tracking two heartbeats— mine racing, the baby’s strong and consistent.
When Dr. Malhotra announces it’s time to push, fear and anticipation surge through me in equal measure. This is it. The moment that changes everything.
“I can’t,” I whisper, suddenly terrified. Not of the pain, but of what comes after. Of being a mother. Of decisions I’ll have to make.
Aleksei leans close, his forehead almost touching mine. “You can,” he says firmly. “You will. For her.”
Something in his voice centers me. The certainty. The faith in my strength that I don’t feel myself.
I push when told, retreat when instructed, my world narrowing to these simple commands and the overwhelmingpressure building inside me. Aleksei never leaves my side, one hand gripping mine, the other supporting me as I bear down.
“The head is crowning,” Dr. Malhotra announces. “One more big push, Stella.”
I gather whatever strength remains, focusing everything on this final effort. The pressure peaks, then releases in a rush of sensation too complex to be called simply pain.
“It’s a girl,” the doctor confirms as a thin, indignant cry fills the room.
Our daughter enters the world at 8:47 p.m., three weeks early, but perfect in every way.
They place her on my chest immediately, her tiny body slick and warm against my skin. She’s so small— smaller than I imagined— with a shock of dark hair and a fierce expression as she protests this new, cold world.
“Polina,” I whisper, the name we’d chosen suddenly feeling right as I look at her face. “Hello, little one.”
I glance up at Aleksei, expecting to see his usual controlled expression. Instead, I find him transformed.
Tears— actual tears— shine in his eyes as he looks at our daughter. His hand, when he reaches to touch her cheek, trembles slightly. The gesture is so gentle it takes my breath away.
“Moya doch,” he murmurs. My daughter. The words come out choked.
In this moment, he isn’t the man I’ve been afraid of these past days. He isn’t the man who’s left me so conflicted. He’s justa father, seeing his child for the first time, overcome with an emotion I never thought him capable of feeling.
After the necessary medical procedures are complete, after I’ve been cleaned up and moved to a recovery bed, after Polina has been measured and swaddled and returned to us, Aleksei holds her for the first time.
“Polina,” he whispers as he gazes at her scrunched-up features. “Ya vsegda budu o tebé zabótit’sya, malýshka.I will take care of you always, my little love.” His large hands cradle her tiny body with such care that it makes my throat tighten.
When he places her back in my arms, his fingers brush my cheek in a touch so tender it brings fresh tears to my eyes.
“Thank you,” he says simply. “For her.”
I sink back into the downy pillows, feeling exhaustion settling in. “Thank you for staying.” I exhale a long breath.
“Where else would I be but by your side,zaychik?” he says.
“I don’t know… I’m sure you have important things to do,” I say feebly.
“Nothing as important as this,” he responds.
The three of us remain like this as evening deepens into night. Aleksei pulls a chair close to my bed, one hand resting lightly on my arm, the other occasionally reaching to adjust Polina’s blanket or touch her tiny fingers.
