Part 4 — A few days after giving birth, my husband put divorce papers in front of me in the kitchen, but his face changed after my calm answer

Elene played the file to the end.

First Marina’s voice was heard.

“She will not be able to stay long at the hospital. If David appears there, everyone will think he is helping her.”

Then David answered:

“The main thing is that the child ends up with me. The rest will be done by the doctor’s records.”

I gripped the edge of the bed.

“What does ‘the doctor’s records’ mean?”

In the recording David’s voice became quieter, but every word could be heard clearly.

“I have already told my supervisor that she has a severe psychological crisis after giving birth. If necessary, an employee will confirm that she was aggressive in the corridor.”

Elene stopped the audio.

Such silence fell over the room that it seemed everyone had stopped breathing at once.

David took a step behind the door.

“This conversation is taken out of context.”

“It is your voice,” I said.

“I was only talking about a possible scenario.”

“You were planning to create a false medical record about me.”

“Nino, you do not understand what pressure I was under.”

“I was standing in the kitchen bleeding, and you were planning my disappearance.”

For the first time David could not answer me.

Elene took out a second phone and called the lawyer. A few minutes later he entered the room, holding a dark-blue folder. David immediately looked toward him.

“Is everything ready?” he asked.

The lawyer did not even look at him.

“I no longer represent your case.”

David’s face changed.

“What are you saying?”

“You told me that your wife left voluntarily and that the child was not in danger. Now I see a recording where you are planning the opposite. I cannot submit such statements under my name.”

“But you have already filed the petition.”

“The petition can be corrected. Continuing a lie cannot.”

David took out his phone.

“I will call Mother.”

“First call the police if you think they have done something wrong,” the lawyer told him. “But understand that after this recording, your false statement will work against you.”

David dialed a number, but the call did not go through. A message appeared on the screen—his bank accounts had been temporarily restricted because the documents submitted for the sale of the house required additional verification.

“What is happening?” he asked.

Elene took one sheet of paper from the folder.

“The attempt to sell the house registered in your wife’s name has been stopped. You used her forged signature.”

I looked at the paper. My name was written below, but the signature was not mine.

At that moment I felt cold more than pain.

All this time I had thought that David was simply planning to run away. It turned out that he had decided in advance where I would live, with whom the child would be, and in what words my condition should be described.

The security officers arrived soon. They stopped David in the corridor and took him to the station for questioning. They also went to Marina’s house to document the papers and devices.

David stopped beside me for the last time.

“Nino, it was not supposed to end like this.”

“You decided yourself how it was supposed to begin.”

“I was building a family.”

“Families are built with truth, not fear.”

He looked at Luka.

“I still do not want him to think badly of me.”

“Then become the kind of father about whom he will not need to think badly.”

He left.

In the evening, when I was alone in the small hospital room, Elene played the recording for me once more. This time I listened with headphones.

David’s words came from outside, as if they were the voice of another man.

“The main thing is that the child ends up with me.”

I reached this sentence and stopped the recording.

Listening to my own husband’s words was the hardest trial. I could no longer find an excuse for his tone. I could no longer say that I was tired and perhaps had not understood correctly.

He had said it.

They brought only one small bag of my belongings. At home, they found the child’s room empty. One of Luka’s socks lay on the floor beside the bed. The frame with our photograph no longer hung on the wall, but its square, faded place was still visible.

And from the kitchen they found the small yellow duck clip. Marina, apparently, considered it a useless object and had left it on the table.

I picked it up.

The smell of chicken fat had remained on the plastic surface. That morning the smell had frightened me. Now it reminded me that I had come out of the house alive.

Three weeks later I rented a small apartment on the other side of the city. Tram lines could be seen from the window. In the mornings I fed Luka, then worked remotely, and during breaks folded his clothes.

During the first days I was still afraid of the doorbell.

Then I realized that fear was like a habit. If you did not feed it every day, it slowly weakened.

The court ruled that Luka would temporarily remain with me. David was assigned only supervised visits until the investigation was completed. A separate case was opened against Marina for false documents and pressure.

I did not smile at a single hearing.

Nor was I happy about David’s problems.

I simply answered questions and no longer tried to save him from the consequences he himself had created.

Two months later Luka drew me a picture for the first time. On the paper there were three figures: me, him, and a big yellow sun. In the corner of the room there was a small black square.

“What is this?” I asked.

“A door,” he told me.

“Why is it black?”

Luka shrugged.

“So that no one comes in through it anymore.”

For a long time I could not say anything to him. Then I stuck the paper on the refrigerator.

That same evening David wrote to me.

“Let us start over. I have changed. For Luka’s sake, at least we should try.”

I looked at the message for a long time. The old Nino would probably have wanted to answer. She would have begun explaining. She would have told him that everything should not have happened this way.

I sent only one sentence:

“For Luka, peace is more important than your return.”

Then I blocked the number.

On the first morning of winter, snow lay on the windowsill. Luka sat on my lap and drew a small circle on the glass with his finger.

I gave him the clip again. The yellow duck was already scratched, one wing was slightly bent, but Luka recognized it immediately.

“Did it come with you that morning?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Then it was ours.”

I took his hand and looked at the whitened street outside. For the first time since that morning, I was no longer afraid of the smell of the kitchen. Nor of the sound of the door. Nor of the rustling of papers.

The yellow duck stood on the table, quietly shining in the sunlight.

This time I closed the door myself.