In our apartment, there was always the smell of oil paint. Not because Kolia painted himself—no, he collected paintings.

Every wall of the house had become a small gallery.

My husband had that incredible gift of seeing beauty in the most ordinary things. Perhaps that’s why he taught art history at the university.

Even today, coming home from work, the first thing he did was hang his new acquisition on the wall.

Settled into his favorite armchair, Kolia gazed at the painting, and his face lit up with that particular smile I loved so much.

At those moments, he reminded me of a contented cat, dozing in the sun.

“Dad, you again?”—our twelve-year-old daughter, Alissa, ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Soon we’ll have no space left! We’ll have to hang the paintings from the ceiling!”

“What an excellent idea,” Kolia smiled, narrowing his eyes mischievously. “Although… your room still has plenty of free wall space. How would you feel about transforming it into an annex of the Tretyakov Gallery?”

“Oh no, Dad!” Alissa pouted, but her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Just try it! I’ll turn all your paintings upside down!”

I stroked my already rounded belly and smiled at this idyllic scene.

The third month of pregnancy was anything but restful. My mood changed as quickly as the weather in April, but in that moment, I felt fully happy.

“Kolia,” I called to him, “when will we go choose the cradle for the baby? There are so many things we still need to buy…”

Kolia tore himself away from the painting.

“You know, Karine, I was assigned a new group of students today. I have to prepare their introduction… Shall we go in a week?”

He approached and placed a gentle hand on my belly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have time to prepare everything.”

But neither a week later, nor a month after, had we made that fateful purchase.

Kolia began coming home late from the university, citing an overwhelming workload. I wanted to understand—work is work—but his absence weighed heavily on me, especially during pregnancy.

Fortunately, there was always Liotcha, Kolia’s brother. He seemed to know exactly when I needed help.

He was the one who suggested taking me to the children’s furniture store when I realized my husband would never come.

“Look at this beauty!” I exclaimed before a delicate pink cradle. “It’s exactly what we need!”

Liotcha raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You already know the baby’s sex? It seems a bit early for such predictions.”

“No, we decided not to find out until after the birth,” I said, caressing the smooth surface of the cradle. “But my mother’s heart tells me it will be a girl.”

“Huh-huh,” Liotcha smiled. “And if it were a boy? Would you put him in that pink cradle?”

“He would be the most stylish one in the nursery,” I laughed. “But I’m convinced it will be a girl.”

The Conversation of Truth
That evening, while I was talking to my mother on the phone in the kitchen, Kolia finally came home. His gaze swept across the living room and stopped at the cradle, and I sensed a strange glimmer in his eyes.

He entered slowly, his whole body indicating that he wanted me to finish my conversation.

“Mom, I’ll call you back later,” I said, then turned to my husband. “What’s going on?”

“We need to talk seriously,” he replied, his voice dull, distant.

My heart skipped a beat. Professional problems? Not now, when I have to prepare the baby’s room!

“It’s not work,” he continued, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s me. Us.”

A chill ran through me. His tone froze me.

“I can’t live like this anymore,” he said, weighing each word. “I’ve met another woman. And… I’ve fallen in love, Karine.”

Everything wavered before my eyes. I clutched the edge of the table, terrified.

“She’s a student in my new group,” he explained without looking at me. “At first, I didn’t notice her flirting… But with her, I feel alive. With you… everything seems faded, like an old painting that’s been washed out.”

I stared at the man I thought I knew and didn’t recognize him anymore.

“Get out of here,” I ordered firmly. “Go—and don’t you dare cross my path again.”

Kolia began gathering his things in silence. I watched him fold his shirts, his trousers, that sweater I had given him for Christmas.

His movements were mechanical, as if performing a well-rehearsed ritual.

“I will help you financially,” he murmured as he closed his suitcase. “And tell Alissa that I love her.”

The door closed. I remained alone, stunned by the silence of the apartment… now mine.

The pink cradle in the corner seemed to mock my dreams of a happy family.

The next morning, I had to explain everything to Alissa.
She reacted as a child reacts to a father’s departure: with bitterness, anger, and incomprehension.

At first, she even blamed me for driving him away:

“You forced him to leave!” she screamed through tears. “It’s all your fault!”

Gradually, she calmed down, especially after hearing details from her friend whose sister was that student at the university.

News of the professor in love with his own student quickly became public.

The family was in shock. Liotcha, above all, reacted with a rage we had never seen.

“I told him that if he left again, he wasn’t my brother anymore,” he told me later. “How could he do that? He has a wonderful wife, a daughter, and soon a second child… and he? He lost his mind like a child!”

Months passed. My belly rounded more and more, and worries never ceased. Thanks to my mother and Liotcha: they never left me alone, looked after Alissa and me, helped me daily, and provided moral support.

One evening, there was a knock at the door. It was Kolia, looking lost, like a shipwrecked sailor.

Alissa, seeing him, turned on her heel and locked herself in her room.

“What do you want?” I asked, voice controlled.

“To talk,” he replied, shuffling awkwardly. “Karine, I made a huge mistake. It was madness… I behaved like an idiot.”

“Exactly like a child,” I interrupted him. “Except you’re no longer a teenager. You’re an adult responsible for your actions.”

“I only realize now how much I love you,” his voice trembled. “Let me come back. Give me a chance to make amends.”

I looked at him and saw a stranger, not the man I had loved.

“And you, what do you know of love? Love is not just ecstasy and bright colors. It’s also responsibility, fidelity, presence through trials. After your betrayal, I can no longer regard you as a man. Do you know who you resemble? The kid in the neighborhood chasing pigeons without knowing what he wants.”

Kolia hunched over, as if my words weighed on him physically. After a silence, he left without a word.

The Mother-in-Law’s Pleas
The next day, my mother-in-law arrived, her eyes red with tears.

“Karine, my dear,” she begged, sitting beside me, “forgive my son. He made a dreadful mistake, but he’s suffering so much…”

She told me that he had taken an apartment with the student and lived there for a while. But something had shattered in his life.

“Do you know what he told me?” she said, wiping her tears. “He hung a new painting in that apartment but felt no joy. He says he no longer sees the beauty he once perceived in every brushstroke. As if he’d lost his sight…”

Then the university learned of their affair. His colleagues turned away from him, the dean summoned him, and made it clear that such behavior was intolerable.

Result: dismissal and a destroyed reputation.

I listened without a shred of pity, only weariness and a dull anger for all the broken dreams.

“No!” I said firmly. “I cannot forgive him. He betrayed not only me: he betrayed our children, our family. He betrayed himself. I see nothing in him worthy of respect.”

My mother-in-law left, understanding there was nothing left to mend. In her eyes, I saw the certainty that I was right: some faults are unforgivable, some wounds never heal.

The Birth
A month later, I felt the first contractions. Everything happened so suddenly that I barely had time to call my mother.

Liotcha took me to the maternity ward first. The delivery was difficult, but when I heard my little girl’s first cry, all my fears vanished.

In the room, the closest family gathered: my mother, Liotcha, Alissa, and my mother-in-law. Kolia was not there—and it was probably for the best.

I looked at my daughter’s tiny face, pressed her to my chest, and felt infinite love flood my heart.

“Look,” I smiled at Liotcha. “Do you remember when I chose that pink cradle?”

He laughed and nodded.

“You can’t fool a mother’s heart, can you?”

As I gazed at my newborn, I thought about how miraculous life is: Kolia searched for bright colors in paintings and in another relationship, while I found them in my children’s eyes, in the support of loved ones, and in my own strength.

Perhaps one day I can look back on the past without pain. But for now, a new page opened before me—and I know it will be filled with the most vivid colors imaginable.

Alissa gently stroked her little sister’s cheek and whispered:

“She’s so beautiful. Mom, can I draw her portrait?”

I nodded, tears of joy in my eyes.

Because true love isn’t a painting that can be replaced by another. It’s what lives in the heart and makes us stronger, even when everything seems to collapse.