My husband went along with his family’s joke about me. But after my response, my mother‑in‑law clutched her heart—and my husband turned as red as a beet.

The sixth month isn’t exactly the ideal time for cozy family get‑togethers with your husband’s relatives—especially when most of them never warmed up to you. Vera knew this, yet she agreed anyway. Anton had just come back from a two‑week business trip, and her mother‑in‑law, Regina Mikhailovna, insisted on a “small family dinner.”

“Come on,” Anton coaxed from the bedroom doorway. “Mom just wants to see us. She’s worried.”

Vera sighed.
“She’s worried… Sure. She hasn’t even called in three months to ask how I’m doing. And now suddenly she cares.”

“She just doesn’t know how to approach you. You haven’t been all that friendly either.”

“Don’t blame it on me,” Vera shot him a weary look. “You know how they feel about me. Especially your mother.”

“Enough,” Anton grimaced. “We’ve discussed this a hundred times. You’re exaggerating.”

“Exaggerating?” Vera stood up sharply, her dress stretching snugly over her rounded belly. “Remember at our wedding when your mother said she hoped her grandchildren would look like you, not like me?”

Anton rolled his eyes tiredly.
“All right, okay, she can be… tactless. But things have changed now. You’re expecting—soon we’ll have a child. She really wants to mend things.”

Vera tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and checked her watch. Half an hour to go. Her bump was plainly visible now, so she’d chosen a loose‑cut, dark‑blue dress with a small floral print. Mother‑in‑law would surely sneer at its simplicity. “Too plain,” she’d say in that special tone that sent shivers down Vera’s spine.

“All right,” Vera surrendered. “But if they start in with their usual jabs, I won’t stay silent. Consider yourself warned.”

—

Regina Mikhailovna’s home was always immaculate. Even now, as a fine autumn drizzle fell outside and the wind scattered yellow leaves across the path, it was warm, dry, and spotlessly clean indoors—no speck of dust on the antique furniture, not a blemish on the snow‑white tablecloth.

“Come in, take off your coats,” Regina Mikhailovna smiled politely, eyeing Vera critically. “Oh my, you’re quite… round already.”

“Hello, Regina Mikhailovna,” Vera forced a smile. “Yes, six months along now.”

“Six months?” Her mother‑in‑law raised an eyebrow. “You look eight. Must be a big baby. Or are you just retaining a lot of fluid? Have you checked your blood pressure?”

“I have,” Vera swallowed the lump in her throat. “Everything’s normal.”

“Hm,” Regina Mikhailovna shook her head. “Let’s just hope there are no complications later.”

Anton squeezed Vera’s hand—was it encouragement or warning? In six years of marriage, Vera still couldn’t read his signals.

“Mama, must you speak of complications right away?” Anton tried to lighten the mood. “The doctor says everything’s fine.”

“Oh, Antonushka, what do those doctors know? Svetlana Petrovna’s daughter said the same, and then nearly died in childbirth—if not for an emergency operation…”

“Mama!” Anton cut her off sharply. “Let’s not, okay?”

In the living room already sat the rest: Larisa, Regina’s sister, with her husband Vadim, and their son—Anton’s cousin Kirill. Vera exhaled. The full collection.

“Well, here come our young ones!” Larisa waved a hand, cigarette in the other. “Come in, sit down. Veronica, how are you feeling, dear?”

“Vera,” she corrected automatically. Six years and her husband’s aunt still “accidentally” mangled her name.

“Oh, sorry, dear. My memory is slipping,” Larisa laughed as if nothing were wrong. “Verushka, of course. How’s your health? The bump is huge already!”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Vera replied curtly, sinking onto a chair.

“Tense, aren’t you?” Larisa squinted. “We’re family! You can tell us if something’s bothering you. Morning sickness, for example. I know someone who suffered so badly she wanted to terminate at six months—can you imagine?”

“Larisa!” Regina Mikhailovna scolded. “One does not discuss such things at the table.”

“What’s wrong with that?” shrugged Larisa. “It’s the twenty‑first century—everyone knows everything.”

The table groaned under salads, cold cuts, hot dishes—Regina Mikhailovna knew how to entertain. Only Vera could eat almost nothing, the nausea refusing to let up despite being in the second trimester.

“Please help yourselves,” Regina Mikhailovna nodded at a carafe of blackcurrant compote. “This is from my own berries. Antonushka, remember how you loved this as a child?”

“I do, Mom,” Anton smiled. “Especially with your pies.”

“I baked some just for you today,” the mother proudly announced.

Anton sat next to Vera but immediately turned to Kirill, discussing work matters. Vera toyed with her fork in the salad, searching for something her stomach would tolerate.

“Anton, you should pay more attention to your wife,” Larisa observed. “She’s pregnant. A woman needs care and attention now, not work talk.”

“We spend the whole day together,” Anton waved him off. “Shopping for a car this morning, then groceries…”

“A car?” Kirill perked up. “What are you getting?”

“Just looking at family‑style options—something bigger for the baby.”

“Are you sure you need a family car so soon?” Vadim interjected with a smirk. “The baby isn’t even born… you never know.”

“What do you mean?” Anton frowned.

“Well, just saying,” Vadim shrugged, raising his eyebrows.

Vera tensed. She could feel how unpleasant the air had become.

“How’s the nursery renovation going?” Larisa jumped in. “Anton, you’ll do it up nicely for your little one? You had that room ready, didn’t you?”

“What renovation?” Anton waved his hand. “I just got back. I’ll do it later.”

“There isn’t much time left,” Regina Mikhailovna pursed her lips. “Three months will fly by.”

“We’ll make it, Mom. Don’t worry.”

“Or maybe less time,” Kirill chimed in, winking. “Big bumps like yours often mean early labor. I’m curious—when your belly is that big, how does the husband manage?”

Vera clutched her fork. Her pregnancy was already complicated; her doctor had warned about possible premature birth from blood-pressure issues.

“Kirill!” Anton rebuked, but without much conviction.

“What’s wrong?” Kirill feigned innocence. “I’m just asking. I’m genuinely curious.”

“You’d better keep quiet,” Vera spat. “Some questions aren’t fit for the dinner table.”

“Oh wow, hormones are raging here,” Kirill laughed, elbowing Anton. “She’s feisty.”

“Did you hear she was on bed rest?” Larisa leaned toward Vera, shifting topics. “Must have been tough without her husband. Anton’s always away. How did you cope? Neighbors must’ve helped?”

Vera sensed a trap but couldn’t pinpoint it.
“Friends dropped by,” she answered briefly. “And my sister visited on weekends.”

“What about that neighbor of yours—Igor? He’s in medicine, right?” Larisa glanced conspiratorially at Regina.

“Georgiy,” Anton corrected. “Yes, so?”

“Just wondering,” Larisa shrugged. “Did he help when you felt bad? Because you always say Anton isn’t there—he can’t switch the TV channels, his laptop freezes, he can’t carry your bags—yet Georgiy’s always around.”

“No,” Vera snapped, seeing exactly where this was going.

“So, what are you having, boy or girl?” Vadim changed the subject again.

“We don’t know yet,” Anton answered. “We want it to be a surprise.”

“Oh, that’s a mistake,” Regina Mikhailovna shook her head. “You have to prepare—buy clothes, toys.”

“We’ll get everything we need,” Vera objected. “There are plenty of unisex items nowadays.”

“Modern youth,” Regina snorted. “In our day we knew exactly who was coming and prepared accordingly.”

“How did you know?” Vera couldn’t resist. “They didn’t have ultrasounds then.”

“A mother’s intuition,” her mother‑in‑law replied flatly. “You can’t fool maternal instinct—though some lack it.”

“Can’t tell from your bump whether it’s a boy,” Larisa mused. “Boy bumps point forward, more pointed. Yours is… vague. Twins, maybe?”

“Larisa, it’s already hard enough for a girl,” Regina Mikhailovna jumped in. “Don’t scare her.”

“I’m not scaring her,” Larisa shrugged. “Just curious. There’ve been no twins in Anton’s family—did your side ever have them?”

“No,” Vera shook her head.

“Strange,” Larisa frowned. “And Georgiy’s family? Any twins?”

Vera dropped her fork. The clink of metal against porcelain made everyone start.

Kirill burst out laughing.
“Larisa!” Regina Mikhailovna exclaimed, though her tone held more curiosity than outrage.

“What’s wrong?” Larisa batted her eyelashes innocently. “I’m just interested in genetics. It’s fascinating.”

Vera turned her gaze on her husband. Anton sat with his head bowed, nervously twisting his fork. He didn’t even try to defend her.

“Wait a minute, Antoha…” Kirill squinted at Vera’s belly. “You were on that February trip. The math has to add up, right?”

“I was home,” Anton muttered without looking up. “Everything adds up. Why are you digging?”

Silence fell. Anton froze, then managed an uncertain smile.

“You know what gift to get?” Larisa pressed on. “A DNA test. No more counting or guessing.”

“Exactly,” Kirill agreed, exchanging looks with Vadim. “Instant clarity, practical and modern.”

“They’re inexpensive now,” Vadim added, spearing some salad. “One swab—you have results in three days.”

“And how do you know so precisely?” Larisa narrowed her eyes. “Have you tested someone?”

“I just know,” Vadim grumbled. “They’re everywhere—among friends, on TV. Stories more amazing than the last.”

“You speak truth,” Regina Mikhailovna nodded, pouring more compote with a sly smile. “It’s better to know early, no surprises.”

She cast a sidelong glance at her son.
“Regina,” Larisa chided, “you sound like an investigator.”

“And what of it?” Regina shrugged. “I’m serious—especially these days.”

“Well, if we’re talking about neighbors,” Kirill grinned, “what about Vera’s neighbor? Georgiy, right? Always hovering, always helping—like an angel guardian.”

Anton joined in the joke:
“That Georgiy… I’m thinking maybe I should really send him a test? He’s awfully helpful.”

Everyone laughed.

“All right,” Anton said, looking at his mother and Larisa. “But seriously, for a gift I’d ask for a gym membership.”

He gestured toward Vera:
“She’ll want to get her figure back after childbirth. I’m afraid I can’t handle it.”

Larisa scoffed. Kirill sniggered. Vadim grinned. Regina Mikhailovna pursed her lips, hiding a smile.

“You’re funny, Antonushka,” Larisa clicked her tongue. “A true dad. Your father was sharp‑tongued too.”

“Better with humor than lawyers,” Kirill agreed. “And the test’s a good idea—fun and useful.”

“Most importantly—know in advance,” Regina Mikhailovna insisted. “You raise a grandchild, and he turns out not to be yours.”

Laughter and clinking glasses rang out. Only Vera sat motionless, staring into space. Under the table, her fingers clenched the napkin until it turned white.

She slowly lifted her head and met Regina Mikhailovna’s eyes with a gaze as cold as a January moon.

“Is that why you spoke so confidently about DNA tests—because your own hands aren’t clean?” Her voice was calm, each word falling like a stone. “Isn’t that why your husband ran away? Because he doubted that Anton was his son? Or should we ask Uncle Vadim?” She looked pointedly around the table.

Silence, heavy as a down quilt. Regina Mikhailovna froze with a fork poised at her lips, her face turning as pale as the napkins stacked beside her plate.

Anton turned to Vera so abruptly he nearly knocked over his glass; his face went beet‑red, eyes wide as a child who’s just seen a magician’s trick.

Vadim, as though choking, began unfastening his shirt collar, as if it had shrunk two sizes.

Larisa stood stock‑still, her gaze darting like a tennis spectator between her sister and her husband.

“How dare you?” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“Vera, are you out of your mind?” Anton seized her hand. “What nonsense is this?”

“Nonsense?” Vera shrugged him off and looked at him with tired pity. “Your father told me on his deathbed. He suspected it until the last day and said you had the right to know. I decided it would destroy your life, so I stayed silent.”

“You lie!” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice quavered, unsure as a broken musical instrument.

“Why is Vadim whitening over there? And why is Larisa gripping the table like it might take off?!” Vera demanded.

All eyes turned to Larisa. She swallowed hard as if it were her final chance.

“Larisa?” Regina Mikhailovna’s voice cracked.

Vadim slowly raised his head, looking at his wife with the sorrow of a man whose darkest fears have just been confirmed.
“I’ve suspected it for years,” he said bitterly. “And Anton is so like my father—the same eyes, the same chin.”

“Vadim!” Larisa screamed as if stung.

“Shut up,” he waved her off. “Thirty years, Larisa. Thirty years of lies.”

Regina Mikhailovna made a sound like a wounded bird’s sob. Her hands trembled as if gripped by a sudden fever.

“You… you…” she stammered, shifting her wild gaze between sister and son. “You suspected all these years?”

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” Larisa snapped. “Your husband overshared everything with me when he’d been drinking.”

“I… I…” Regina Mikhailovna clutched her heart with theatrical flair; Vera nearly rolled her eyes.

“So does that mean… Anton, your father might not be your father?” No one answered. All looked to Regina Mikhailovna, deflated like a popped balloon.

“Vera,” Anton turned to his wife, eyes glistening like wet pavement, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have changed anything?” she shrugged. “He’s the only father I’ve known. Who’s loved me. Does the blood really matter?”

For two years she’d harbored a secret capable of shattering his world. And now it had exploded with a single phrase like a grenade.

“I need some air,” Vera rose, sliding her chair back as if leaving a royal reception rather than this circus of grotesques.

“Wait!” Anton grabbed her arm. “You can’t just go after… after everything!”

“I can,” Vera freed her arm softly but firmly. “And I am. I have nowhere left here.”

“And what about…” he faltered, staring at her belly.

“The baby?” she smirked. “Don’t worry—he’s definitely yours. Unlike some, I know who fathered my child.”

Vera shoved her phone into her bag, zipped it up, and strode for the door as everyone erupted—Regina screaming at Larisa, “You! It’s all your fault!” Larisa shrieking back, Vadim mumbling something about “thirty years of lies.” Only Anton sat silent, as if his tongue had been cut out.

No one even tried to stop her. Good. She didn’t care.

She pushed the door open and nearly slipped on the rain‑slicked step. The storm had passed; only darkness and the occasional glimpse of moon and a distant flickering streetlamp remained.

Vera took a few steps away from the house and halted. Her head buzzed. Where now? Home was impossible—there he’d appear drunk on grief. To her parents? Her mother’s blood pressure couldn’t take another scandal. To friend Lenka’s? Her tiny flat wasn’t meant for a pregnant woman.

Her belly fluttered. She placed a hand there and felt the baby kick.

“You’re getting restless too, huh?” she whispered and smiled. “We’ll manage, trust me.”

She pulled out her phone—its screen cracked from a fall a week ago—and called a taxi. “Forget them all. We’ll be fine.”

The phone beeped: “Driver on the way.” Vera sank onto the bench by the gate—her legs gave out. She didn’t want to go home. Not ever again. Six years wasted… She had loved him. Foolishly. Cooked for him, washed those nasty socks. And he—“Who needs anyone like that?” Traitor.

Tears burned down her cheeks—angry, hot tears.
“And you too,” Vera scolded her reflection on the phone screen. “Stop this whining.”

“Here at last,” a voice said. She wiped her tears on her sleeve—didn’t want the driver to see her crying. What next? Where to?

The car headlights swept the path. The driver—balding—leaned out.
“Taxi for you?”

Vera nodded, struggling to stand. The driver got out and opened her door. Top service, she thought.

Suddenly Anton burst from the house—hair tousled, face contorted—rubber‑soled shoes unlaced, shirt splashed with something fresh. Mother‑in‑law must have thrown a fork at him.

“Vera! Stop!”

“What?” she folded her arms. “Still have something to add? About me being fat and worthless?”

“Come on,” Anton panted. “I didn’t mean that. I just blurted.”

“Right. Just,” she repeated. “And you all just did what you do best. Enough!”

“You going?” the driver interjected, glancing between them. “I need to know.”

“Yes,” Vera climbed in and slammed the door.

“Sorry,” Anton mouthed through the glass.

“Never mind,” Vera mouthed back, as the car pulled away.

She watched the house recede, the rain beginning again, droplets drumming on the roof. You can’t outrun people. But for now—sleep, breathe.

Vera stared at the black clouds drifting past, at the yards swallowed by darkness. She belongs nowhere there. She won’t return. She won’t forgive. You can’t treat people like this.