The city was still half-asleep when Rita pulled her worn-out taxi into the garage. She wiped oil from her fingers and zipped up her oversized coat, hiding the gentle curve of her pregnant belly.

No one at the taxi company knew she was six months along. And she intended to keep it that way.

She leaned under the hood, adjusting a loose wire.

“You fix cars now, too?” Kostea, one of the drivers, grinned as he passed. “You should open a shop.”

Rita smiled faintly. “Maybe someday.”

She didn’t tell him that fixing engines reminded her of home — of her grandfather, the only family she had, who taught her how to change oil and catch fish with bare hands. He had passed before she turned seventeen, and since then, it had just been her.

She came to the city chasing something better. She found work at a small café, met Egor — a regular with kind eyes and easy charm. He told her she was special. That he hadn’t met anyone like her before.

She believed him. Believed him even when she saw the first signs of life on a test strip. She had smiled through her tears, clutching it like a promise.

But when she told Egor, his smile disappeared.

“I’m not ready,” he said. “I can’t be a father.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Rita never cried in front of anyone. Not when he left. Not when morning sickness hit during a shift. Not even when the car broke down in the middle of a night ride.