"How is she? When can I see her?" I ask, unable to hold myself back.
There is hope ringing in my voice, intertwined with impatience and fear, as if I am standing on the edge, waiting for someone to reach out a hand to me. I look at the doctor as if he is about to give me the key to the door behind which everything will be fine, behind which breathing will return and this inner hurricane will stop.
"She is already better. We are doing everything we can. Did you know that she has heart problems?" he asks, throwing me into bewilderment.
His words hit me like an electric shock — I freeze, not knowing what to say. His eyes are serious, and he is clearly waiting for my answer, watching my reaction with the same attention with which people watch someone who has just been told an unexpected truth.
"No... my beloved never complained about such a thing. To tell the truth, there was a three-year break in our relationship, so I may not know many things," I explain to him, feeling how heaviness slowly grows inside. It is a feeling like wet sand that pulls you down, forcing you to sink deeper and deeper into guilt. My thoughts rush around like wounded birds, crashing against the walls of my consciousness, finding no way out.
"It is written in her hospital records that during pregnancy she had heart pains. However, after giving birth and until now she has not gone to the hospital again," he tells me what I did not know.
Each of his words is like a stone thrown into water — circles spread far away, touching old wounds and new fears. I feel how, just from his story, not only my idea of her health changes, but the entire past, which, as it turns out, I never fully knew.
"Did she lose consciousness because of her heart?" I ask, clenching my hands into fists as if I can hold all this fear and all this uncertainty in them. My fists turn white from the strain, as if physical pain can drown out the pain of the soul.
"Not exactly. Your fiancée is pregnant, and that, in fact, is the main reason. Because of the redistribution of blood flow in the body, the pressure on the heart has increased," he continues calmly, as if he is simply describing a medical fact. But for me these words thunder like a storm out of a clear sky. A buzzing sound sweeps through my head — as if the whole world goes silent for a second.
"Pregnant?" I repeat, feeling how everything inside me freezes.
The word hangs in the air, as if time stops. It resounds in every cell of my body, washing over me with a wave of warmth and at the same time cold. Joy strikes my chest, but immediately reflects in anxiety: "And what about her heart?"
"Yes, and you did not know?" the doctor is surprised, looking at me with a slight raising of his brows. His voice is not condemning, rather it carries a slight confusion — as if he himself does not know how to deliver this news more delicately.
"No... And how many weeks has it been already?" I barely manage to say, feeling how my throat dries up.
I try to pull myself together, but my voice still trembles, betraying the storm raging inside. It is like a sudden whirlwind hitting with such force that my legs almost give way: joy — bright and tenderly wrapping me, fear — sharp like a blade, and shock — icy and all-encompassing. All of this weaves together, merges into a single knot, and there is no way to separate one feeling from another.
I sit on the chair like a man who at the same time receives a priceless gift and, in that very second, has his hands struck with force. My chest feels tight, my breath falters, and only my heart beats dully, as if asking: "Are you ready?"
"Two weeks already, according to our calculations," he informs me, looking into the documents. His voice sounds calm, almost indifferent, but for me every second while he turns the papers lasts an eternity, mercilessly stretching the tension to the limit.
And here it is — these numbers. Simple, almost ordinary, but in a single instant they become the center of my world. Two weeks... Just fourteen days, and inside her already lives a life. Our new little life. This realization spreads warmth through my body, floods everything — the horror, the uncertainty, even the confusion.
I feel how a wave rises inside me — not panic, no — something deeper, trembling, like responsibility, love, anxiety. All at once.
And I understand — nothing will ever be the same, and I am boundlessly happy about it.
"Will Katrin be all right?" I ask him, desperately hoping for a reassuring answer.
I need not just a prognosis — I need certainty, an anchor in this storm of emotions, in this sudden ocean of the future, about which I know nothing.
"She needs to take care of herself more than other pregnant women. Also, to remove everything that can upset her and keep her in a calm environment until the very birth. Besides that, I will prescribe her tablets. If they do not help, we will put her on IVs," his words are logical, clear, precise.
"All right, I will make sure of that. When can I see her?" I exhale, as if after a long dive underwater.
I need to see my Rebel Girl as soon as possible — the one who right now, somewhere in this building, is completely alone. I want just to make sure that she is here and safe. I want to touch her fingers, to feel the familiar warmth — or at least meet her gaze if she is already awake. Without her this new world is like an unfinished house: there are walls, but there is no life. It will not become real if she is not in it.
"The nurse will tell you which room, but keep in mind that she is still asleep after the medicine we gave her," the doctor clarifies, softening his voice slightly. Perhaps he sees that I need this — a little human warmth. And I am grateful for this pinch of softness as for a life buoy.
"All right, thank you, doctor. I will go," I say, standing up.
My legs feel heavy as lead, and my heart beats somewhere high in my throat. I head for the door, feeling how something inexpressible gathers in my chest: a lump of love, fear, tenderness, and guilt. It grows, makes it hard to breathe, but at the same time it warms — I do not know how this is possible, but it is so.
"I will pass the list of medicines through the nurse. Goodbye," the man adds, returning to the papers, as if diving again into his duties, into his everyday routine of a rescuer.
Without answering anything, I leave. I am in such a state that I want nothing but to see my Rebel Girl. I just need to touch her hand, hear her breathing, be near. Everything else at this moment ceases to matter. The whole world narrows down to one room, one woman, one future.
"Well, what is it, Max?" Vi asks me when he sees me walking towards him.
There is impatience, anxiety, but also hope in his voice — that special kind, trembling on the edge, when a person almost wants to believe that everything is fine before he hears the answer. His eyes, full of worry, immediately dart to mine, as if hoping to find in them a spark of consolation before I open my mouth. And it seems he really does read in them something more than just information — not words, but emotions, vibrating between the lines, transmitted silently, like the breath before a storm.
"Katrin is pregnant," I repeat the doctor's words, not mentioning her illness.
These two words sound quiet but weighty, like a shot in silence, like a prayer whispered but with a force that can change fate. I feel how they still vibrate in the air, like a ringing note hanging in expectation of response. The space around seems to freeze, absorbing this moment — sacred, vulnerable, alive.
In joy the man hugs me. His embrace is strong, warm, sincere — as if he is not only happy for me, but is at this moment part of some great miracle. In this impulse there is so much humanity, so much support, as if the whole world for a moment narrows down to these two pairs of arms, embracing each other in wordless recognition.
"Congratulations, my friend! You are the best, and your children will be the same!" he congratulates me with such enthusiasm, as if this is his personal happiness too. His voice rings with sincerity, and in these words there is not a gram of routine politeness — only genuine joy, bright, trembling. His words reach straight into my heart, wrapping it with tenderness, support, faith — the very kind that becomes an anchor in any storm.
I hug him, and suddenly the realization that I will become a father again overwhelms me like a huge wave — strong, warm, all-absorbing. It is so powerful that it leaves no space for doubts or fear. Only love. Only trembling. Only gratitude that life gives me this chance again. My heart beats in a new way — deeper, louder, as if it knows: inside me a new chapter begins.
Because of this feeling, I even shed a tear — and not just one. Hot drops slide down my cheeks, leaving traces of inner shock, purification, real happiness. I am not ashamed of these tears. No. They are honest, like love itself. I continue to hug Grandpa, as if in this embrace there is everything: my joy, my pain, my promise to myself to be near my beloved and never let her go again.
I am happy — despite the bad words the doctor said. Those words are somewhere in the background, as if overshadowed by the radiance of this news, as if the light of new life casts them into the shade, not letting them take over my heart.
It is nothing. I will do everything so that nothing happens to my beloved. I swear to myself, I will be near. I will become her support, her wall, her shield. And together — hand in hand, heart to heart — we will raise our baby. With love. With faith. With the strength that only a real family gives.
Let it be hard. Let it be frightening. I will not retreat. Because now we have him... or her. Our new little life... And nothing in this world compares with this gift.