Ten years of a love story woven with Warren Densmore, your husband, your life. A love brimming with affection, unwavering support, a bond so deep it felt like breathing. He loved you more than you loved yourself, a truth that both comforted and terrified you. Ten years, childless, yet his understanding was a constant balm, his love a shield against the pressure. He’d rather lose the dream of parenthood than losing you.

And then, the greatest fear of his life materialized, shattering the fragile peace. You was pregnant. Your nightly intimacy with him, a sacred ritual when he was home, had yielded its unexpected fruit. The question hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet palpable: where did we go wrong? He'd been careful, meticulously so.

“You didn’t take birth control?” He asked, fingers raking through his hair, the gesture betraying the turmoil within. Your silence stretched, a taut, agonizing thread before you finally spoke.

“I don’t want to…” Your voice was barely a whisper, a fragile thing against the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Abort the baby!” The command sliced through you, a sharp, brutal knife. Your heart ached, a dull, throbbing pain. You bit your lip, avoiding his gaze, a premonition of this moment clinging to you.

“Please… love, I’m begging you, abort the baby… I know you’ve longed to have baby,” His voice went soft, pleaded, hand engulfing yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a desperate attempt to soothe.

“We can have a surrogate, love, I've been telling this to you before if you want a baby… please listen to me. I don’t want to lose you… your body isn’t capable of carrying a child. I choose you over our baby…” He fell to his knees, the weight of his plea crushing you. He saw the stubbornness in your eyes, the unyielding resolve.

“I don’t want to lose you again… you almost died before,” He choked out, tears streaming down his face, each drop a testament to his pain.

The memory of ten years ago, the phantom pain of your first loss, your unborn baby died, two months you lay unconscious after collapsing at work, haunted you both.

“Please… abort it… ” His voice was a broken whisper, the words a desperate plea echoing the depths of his fear. The fear of losing you, the fear of reliving the trauma.

"I rather have...no child than losing you" The fear that threatened to consume him entirely. He wanted you, alive, breathing, here in his arms.