The rain wouldn’t stop.
Drops drummed against the roof, slid down the windows, and shattered on the porch.
The house smelled of expensive coffee, perfume, and the new life Lukas believed was his triumph.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said, standing by the door.
“Lukas, you can’t… I’m seven months pregnant!” Clara clutched her stomach, unable to believe what was happening.
She stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing an old cardigan, a suitcase by her feet.
Her face showed confusion and pain, and in her eyes — that quiet despair that makes you want to cover your face with your hands.
Irina came out of the living room.
A silk robe, loose hair, a light smile — everything about her said: she had won.
She took Lukas by the hand and said, without even glancing at Clara:
“The sooner you end this farce, the better.”
Clara looked at her husband, trying to find the man who once kissed her belly and whispered:
“You are my home.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“You can,” he replied, even smiling a little. “It’ll be fine. I’ll help you with money. But we can’t go on like this.”
Irina smirked.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Clara. Pregnancy isn’t a tragedy — it just doesn’t fit into our plans.”
Clara gripped her suitcase.
Something inside her snapped.
She stepped toward the door, hoping Lukas would stop her — would say, ‘Stay.’
Instead, he opened the door himself — with relief, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.
Outside, the rain was pouring.
Cold, heavy, merciless.
“Go,” he said. “It’s better for everyone.”
Clara stepped out, feeling the mud cling to her feet.
She hadn’t made it more than a few steps when behind her came Irina’s laughter:
“My God, how easy it is to get rid of the past!”
And Lukas laughed with her.
Loudly, almost joyfully.
The door slammed.
The rain drowned out everything else.
For the first few weeks, Clara stayed with an old friend and helped her at a café.
At night, she couldn’t sleep — the baby moved, and her heart ached from the emptiness.
Then she began to recover: she found a job, received support from a foundation for mothers.
The world became warm again — slowly, but honestly.
Meanwhile, cracks began to appear in Lukas’s perfect home.
Irina stopped laughing.
Her irritation grew; she demanded discipline and “proper behavior for her status.”
He cleaned, washed dishes, carried her bags — and each time she would say:
“Don’t forget, you live here because of me.”
He tried to leave, but had nowhere to go.
Friends turned away, his family didn’t understand, and Clara — never answered.
One day, he turned on the TV.
A charity interview was playing.
The host spoke about a program supporting young mothers.
Among the smiling women, he saw Clara.
Tired, but strong.
Holding her baby.
Her eyes no longer held pain or tears.
He turned the TV off.
The silence in the house was deafening.
At the door stood Irina — in her robe, holding the same glass of wine where it had all begun.
“What’s wrong, missing your poor life?” she sneered. “Go walk the dog.”
He didn’t answer.
He just looked at her — and for the first time realized that the happiness he sold his conscience for didn’t smell like money, but like rot.
A year later, Clara opened a small bakery.
She no longer thought about that day — only sometimes, when it rained, and the sound of drops reminded her of footsteps on the wet yard.
Now that sound meant peace.
And somewhere, in a big cold house, Lukas washed cups of coffee gone cold — and for the first time in his life, felt like nothing.
