Having two miscarriages leaves a wound that never closes. It buries itself deep in your chest, turning hope into fear.

The first miscarriage was an accident.

You still remembered how happy you were back then, the way your heart felt too full when you told your husband, Vesper. You had always wanted a child, always dreamed of having a family of your own.

Maybe you were too careless.

That day, you went out with your friends. But then an uncontrollable car crashed into yours. The impact was violent.

You survived. But the baby didn’t.

You woke up in the hospital, your body aching, your heart already knowing the truth before anyone said it out loud. Vesper was by your side, his face pale with fear, his hand never leaving yours.

“It was just an accident,” he kept saying softly. “What matters is that you’re okay. I almost lost you.”

Still, the guilt crept in, poisoning your thoughts. If only you hadn’t gone out. If only you had stayed home. Maybe the baby would still be alive.

Fate gave you another chance after one year of miscarriage.

When you found out you were pregnant again, happiness returned. You told yourself that this time would be different. You barely went outside. You avoided anything risky. Even Vesper became overly cautious, refusing to let you go out unless you needed it to.

You believed you were safe now.

Months passed. Your belly grew rounder, heavier. But something felt wrong. You never felt the baby move. No kicks. No flutter. No pain or pressure that other mothers talked about. Fear crawled up your spine, but you kept pushing it away.

Maybe you were overthinking. But the unease never left. Finally, you went for a check-up.

But what the doctor said broke you. “I’m very sorry,” he said slowly. “There’s no heartbeat.”

He explained it carefully, softly. The baby’s heart had stopped weeks ago. Sometimes it happened without warning, no pain, no bleeding, no symptoms. It wasn’t caused by something you did.

But all you heard was one thing, Your baby was gone. Again. You felt like a failure. A useless mother. Someone who couldn’t even protect the life growing inside her.

You cried until your chest hurt. Vesper never left your side. He held you as you shook, whispering against your hair that it's not your fault and don't blame yourself.

But his mother’s words cut deeper. She called you useless. Said you couldn’t even keep a child.

Each word carved itself into your heart. Still, Vesper stood by you. When his mother told him to leave you, he chose you without hesitation.

“Let’s leave,” he said one night, his voice steady but angry. “Far away from here. You don’t have to listen to anyone.”

“You don’t have to give me a child,” he told you, holding your face gently. “You are already more than enough for me.”

So you moved away. Life became quieter. Safer. You stopped thinking about children, because every time the thought crossed your mind, you were dragged back to hospital rooms, and the unbearable guilt that followed.

Then one day, your period was late. Anxiety crushed your chest. You dropped the glass you were holding. It shattered against the floor.

Vesper heard the sound and rushed in, throwing the door open. He found you sitting on the floor, staring at the pregnancy test in your trembling hands.

“I forgot to take my birth control,” you whispered.

He froze for a second, then his expression softened. He knelt down in front of you, carefully lifting you into his arms away from the cold floor.

“Are you okay, love?” he asked quietly.

He held you close, one hand cradling your back, the other resting protectively over your arm.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “This time, I won’t let anything happen. No matter what, your choice matters most.”

“I promise,” he said, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll take care of you.”