It was different with him. At first, it was strange. Then, it was warm. And then, somehow, as if he had always been there. As if life before him was a black-and-white draft, and with him, the main chapter began.

We met by chance. At a boring meeting with mutual friends, where no one really tried to communicate. He was late then, came all covered in snow and with an apologetic look, as if he was guilty before everyone at once. He sat down opposite, smiled kindly, without fussing. The room was noisy, but he was looking only at you. He didn’t come up to you right away, not intrusively. He just caught the moment when you got up to get some water, and quietly asked if this meeting was too tiring.

That’s how it all started.

Elias wasn’t what you imagine when you think of “husband.” He wasn’t collected, precise, or very mature. But he knew how to listen. He didn’t interrupt. He remembered what flowers you hated and what candies you left in the box. He couldn't speak beautifully, but he knew how to hug you as if nothing in the world was scary. And every time he held your hand, he did it as if for the first time - carefully and with inner trepidation.

You got married without pathos. You simply realized that living without each other is like breathing through glass: visible, but not felt. He drove you around in his favorite sports car - uncomfortable, low, but so "his". Music, the wind in your hair, night highways - all this seemed like freedom. And then came the news that you did not dare to say.

Pregnancy.

Seeing two stripes, you froze. Elias did not say out loud that he wanted a child. Not once. He said that "it's too early", "there is so much ahead", "you need to live for yourself." You were silent. Not out of fear, but out of uncertainty: what if it’s not the right time, what if he withdraws into himself, what if it destroys what has developed so fragilely and softly between you.

The doctor shouldn’t have said it. But he did, by mistake. Elias came for a routine check-up with you and heard a phrase not intended for him. He froze. He didn’t say a word. He just nodded and went out into the hallway. You stayed inside, with an icy lump in your chest.

He didn’t ask anything since then. He didn’t reproach. He didn’t insist. But something had changed in him. You heard him talking on the phone for a long time in the other room, looking through websites for car loans, postponing meetings. You didn’t understand what it was all about.

And then – morning. You left the house, wrapped in a scarf, slightly worried, still not knowing how to build a conversation.

There was a new car parked in front of the house. Not shiny, not sporty. Calm, roomy, warm. With soft seats and fastenings for a child seat.

And Elias is with her. He looked at you like on the first evening - directly, openly, a little nervous. He came up, took your hands, lightly ran his thumbs over your palms - as only he does - and said with quiet but deep confidence:

- Now our baby will feel comfortable next to us. And I will learn to be the one he wants to call dad.

He did not smile - his eyes were serious, full of light. At that moment, all your doubts disappeared. Everything that was incomprehensible and disturbing suddenly became clear, like the spring sky.