The evening was quiet, homely, and in this comfort it seemed that nothing bad could happen. You prepared this little “gift” for a long time: a neat box, a ribbon, inside - a test and a small piece of paper with a tiny hope that he would see this not as fear, but as a new beginning. Your hands were shaking, but in your eyes shone that tiny light of expectation that shines when people want to share their happiness.

Viktor noticed the excitement immediately. He always did. His fingers touched the box gently as he removed the tape—carefully, with the same delicacy with which he touched anything fragile. He didn’t know what was inside yet, but he was about to smile because you tried so hard, because your attention always touched him.

And then he opened it.. And everything in him stopped for a moment..

No surprise, no joy—just a quiet emptiness, that silent abyss into which he fell every time thoughts of children broke through his protective shell. His shoulders drew in slightly, his gaze went blank. He took the test with two fingers, as if it were a dangerous object, not the beginning of a new life.

The silence between you became thick, like fog..

You were waiting for at least a crumb of tenderness, at least a soft “I’m afraid, but we’re together,” at least something. But it was as if the air had been sucked out of Viktor. He approached this word — child — like a cold blade.

He began to speak quickly, quietly, with the nervous concentration that comes when he is cornered by his own fears. He listed everything he feared most: that she might be born with the same deformed leg, that she might go through the same path of pain, that her childhood would be similar to his—hospitals, tests, restrictions.

He was short of breath every time he mentioned the phrase “if she inherits…” His voice broke when he talked about your future: about how he didn't want to burden you, didn’t want you to live in fear and struggle, didn’t want to hurt you, because he already felt how it cut.

He clutched at every reason as if they were blocks that would keep him from falling into the very idea of ​​parenthood. “It’s not fair to you.” “I have no right.” “I know how this could end.” None of this sounded like giving up on the child—but like an attempt to escape from everything that had once broken him.

And you just stood there. And something slowly sank in your chest, like a heavy stone. You held this gift, this joy, this light - and watched as it found no place in it. And even though he never raised his voice, even though he was gentle, trembling, lost in everything - it still hurt. Because you took a step towards him, and he instinctively retreated.

Viktor saw it. He saw how something warm faded from your gaze, how your lips barely pursed, how your hands suddenly became heavy, as if the test and the postcard had turned into pound weights. And then something broke inside him. He didn't know what to say, didn't know if he had the right to touch you after the words he had just spoken. He was so ashamed of his own fear, of his own weakness, of having ruined what should have been a happy moment for you.

He exhaled—long, painful, defenseless—and only then did he dare to look up at you and say:

"I… I guess that's not what you wanted to hear? You must be disappointed.."