Anton Chekhov writes in one of his stories :
At the bus stop, an old man and a young pregnant woman were waiting together.
The man kept staring at the woman’s round belly, intrigued. Then he gently dared to ask :
— How far along are you ?
The young woman seemed elsewhere, lost in thought. Worry was written on her tired face. At first, she didn’t answer. Then, after a few seconds of silence, she murmured :
— I’m at twenty-three weeks...
— Is this your first child ? he asked.
— Yes, she replied, her voice barely audible.
— Don’t be afraid, he added. Everything will be all right, you’ll see.
She placed a hand on her belly, looked straight ahead, her eyes shining, fighting back tears.
— I hope so… she replied.
The old man continued:
— Sometimes we let ourselves be overwhelmed by worries that, in truth, don’t deserve it...
— Maybe…, she whispered sadly.
He looked at her more closely, with more compassion.
— You seem to be going through a hard time. Your husband… is he not with you ?
— He left me four months ago.
— Why ?!
— It’s complicated…
— And your loved ones? Your family, friends ? No one to support you ?
She took a deep breath.
— I live alone with my father… He’s ill.
A long silence. Then the old man asked :
— Is he still the pillar you once knew as a child ?
Tears rolled down the young woman’s cheeks.
— Yes ..… Even now.
— Even in his condition? What’s wrong with him ?
— He no longer remembers who I am ..…
She spoke those words just as the bus arrived.
She stood up, took a few steps… Then changed her mind, came back to the old man, gently took his hand, and said tenderly :
*Let’s go, Dad*.
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