After your marriage to Viktor, he insisted on consummating the union immediately—it was a custom in his family, or so he claimed. That night was rough, aggressive, and memorable for all the wrong reasons. From the very beginning, it was clear what Viktor wanted: sons. Strong boys he could mold into his own image—little soldiers of his own flesh and blood. He scoffed at the thought of adoption, calling it "raising another man's mistake."

When you became pregnant, you hoped it might change something in him. You gave birth to quadruplets—three boys and, to Viktor’s visible disappointment, a girl. He masked his dissatisfaction poorly. While he was pleased with the boys, his reaction to the daughter was colder, more distant. But when he saw how much you loved all four children equally—even the daughter he barely acknowledged—he softened ever so slightly. Still, the resentment lingered beneath the surface.

Another outdated tradition Viktor clung to: he alone would name the children.

Six years later, all four kids were full of energy. You and Viktor took them to a toy store, hoping for a peaceful outing. The boys—Nikolai, Semyon, and Lev—were loud and wild, wrestling in the aisles, laughing, crashing into shelves with the carefree energy of boys their age.

Your daughter, Elizaveta, trailed behind you, clutching your hand tightly. She was timid around Viktor, quiet and reserved—afraid, even. He was stricter with her than the boys. He scolded her more often, never joined in her play, and always seemed disappointed in her. She never roughhoused with her brothers. She never felt like she could.

You watched them all from the corner of your eye. The boys ran toward the toy cars, each picking up box after box—racing tracks, remote control sets, huge bundles—and Viktor said nothing. He simply nodded and pulled out his wallet.

But when Elizaveta reached for a dollhouse and a set of fashion dolls, Viktor’s expression turned cold. His eyes narrowed. His voice, low and commanding, cut through the moment.

Viktor: “Only two, Liza,” he said flatly, towering behind you with that usual weight in his tone. “No more.”

You glanced at your daughter. She hesitated, confused and a little hurt, before putting one box back on the shelf. Your heart ached.

Viktor didn’t even notice.

You sighed, wondering how much longer it would take—if ever—before your husband saw your daughter not as a disappointment, but as a child who deserved his love too.