“I don’t know.” Tigran’s honesty is painful but necessary. “I don’t know if I’ll be strong enough to choose love over revenge if someone hurts our children. I won’t be able to show mercy to people who pose a threat to our family.”
“I’m not asking you to show anyone who hurts our family mercy. I just don’t want you to become like your father while trying to protect our family from being hurt.” I take his hands in mine. “We make these decisions as partners, and we hold each other accountable when the darkness starts to take over.”
“I can try.” His painful honesty hurts both of us, but I’d rather hear the truth than comforting lies.
I place his hand on my stomach where our babies are growing. “It’s scary as hell, but we’re having six children who will break the cycle of violence and abandonment that defined both our childhoods.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because we’re not our parents.” I look directly into his gaze. “We’re choosing to stay and fight for each other instead of running away. Our children will have something neither of us had growing up.”
“What?”
I smile, though it feels a little wobbly since I’m still in shock at the idea of multiples and the changes that require. “Our babies will have two parents who love each other and who will neverabandon them, no matter how difficult things get.” I lean up to kiss him softly. “That has to count for something.”
When we go back inside the clinic, Dr. Kozlova is waiting with a folder full of information about specialized prenatal care and recommendations for managing a high-risk multiple pregnancy. The conversation is clinical and practical, focused on appointment schedules and monitoring protocols that will dominate the next several months of our lives.
“You’ll need to see me weekly for the first trimester, then twice weekly as the pregnancy progresses,” she says while Tigran takes notes. “We’ll monitor for any signs of complications, and I’ll coordinate with specialists at Northwestern Memorial, who have experience with higher-order multiples.”
“What about security?” Tigran’s question interrupts her medical explanations. “How do we ensure Zita’s safety during appointments and potential hospitalization?”
“I’ve worked with your family for fifteen years.” She speaks bluntly but neutrally. “I understand the unique challenges you face, and I’m willing to make arrangements for private appointments and enhanced security measures as needed. You have the money to add an OB and NICU suite to your current home clinic.”
He nods, not mentioning we’ve been hiding out in Door County. “Consider it done.”
The practical details feel overwhelming, but there’s something oddly comforting about planning for the future instead of just reacting to crisis after crisis. We schedule the next appointment, receive a list of dietary restrictions and recommendedsupplements, and discuss signs that would require immediate medical attention.
As we prepare to leave, the doctor hands me a small envelope. “Those are ultrasound pictures of your babies.”
I open the envelope with trembling hands and look at the grainy black and white images that show six tiny forms, each no bigger than a grape, but each with a clearly visible heartbeat captured in the frozen moment of the ultrasound. They’re already changing everything about who we are and why we’re fighting.
“They’re real.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
“They’re real.” Tigran’s voice is soft with wonder as he looks over my shoulder at the images. “Six reasons to build a better world, even if we have to tear down the old one to make room for it.”
During the drive back to the safehouse, I study the ultrasound pictures while Tigran makes phone calls about enhanced security and medical preparations. The fear is still there, but it’s being slowly replaced by a fierce protectiveness that surprises me with its intensity.
These children will face challenges I can barely imagine, but they’ll also have advantages that Tigran and I never had. They’ll grow up knowing they’re loved unconditionally. They’ll have parents who will fight to stay together no matter what obstacles arise. They’ll be raised with the understanding that strength comes from protecting others, not destroying them.
“What are you thinking about?” Tigran asks when he finishes his calls.
“I’m thinking about names.” I trace one of the ultrasound images with my fingertip. “About what we want to call them and what we want their lives to be like.”
“Any ideas?”
“I want them to have names that honor the people who loved us.” I look at him. “Your mother, my father, and the parts of our families that were worth preserving.”
“Anastasia for my mother.” Tigran’s voice is soft. “Claude for your father.”
I nod. “The rest will have strong names that serve them well no matter what paths they choose.” I lean against his shoulder.
“We have time to figure it out.” Tigran kisses the top of my head. “We have months to plan and prepare and make sure everything is ready for them.”
“Do we?” I can’t keep the worry from creeping back into my voice. “Do we really have months, or will the Federoffs force our hand before then?”
“We’ll end the threat from the Federoffs before these children are born.” Tigran’s voice carries deadly certainty. “Whatever it takes, they’ll grow up in a world where Avgar’s family can never hurt them.”
I want to argue that violence isn’t the answer, and there has to be another way to resolve the conflict without more bloodshed, but looking at these ultrasound pictures, feeling the weight of responsibility for six innocent lives growing inside me, I realize violence is the answer in this case. Avgar Federoff has to be out of this world before our babies enter it.
