At five months pregnant, Lika couldn’t bend over without pain in her lower back — but she still dragged herself out to the garden.
Her husband’s mother, Aunt Vera, would be up in the morning making borscht, muttering something to herself under her breath.
Then she’d plop a bowl in front of Lika and say:
— “You eat when you’ve finished sweeping.”
So Lika swept. One day, while working in the garden, her head started spinning so badly she collapsed straight into the dirt. Vera came out, looked down at her and said:
— “Pregnant women aren’t made of glass either, and there’s no time to sit around.
The potatoes sure won’t dig themselves up…”
Lika lay there, blinking against the harsh sun, one hand on her belly, the other sunk into the soil like it might give her some strength. And all she could think was: Why did I let him send me here?
Her husband, Miran, was off tanning somewhere in Antalya with his coworkers—“team-building,” he called it. Meanwhile, she was getting yelled at for folding laundry the “wrong way.”Aunt Vera had always been hard-edged. Traditional, proud, the kind of woman who didn’t believe in sitting down until the day was done. But this? This wasn’t tradition. This was punishment.
That night, Lika called Miran. She kept her voice even, even as her hand shook holding the phone.
“I fainted today,” she said.
“Again? You’re probably not drinking enough water. Don’t stress Mom out, okay? She’s trying to help you toughen up.” Toughen up. Like she was some weak link in the family chain.
The next morning, Lika didn’t go outside. She stayed in bed and waited.
Vera banged on the door. “The weeds are growing while you rest like a queen!”
Lika didn’t move.
Vera finally stomped in, arms crossed. “Is this how you’ll raise your child? Lazy and spoiled?”
