Morning light seeps through the countryside house the way it always has—soft, amber, catching on the wooden floors and warming the quiet corners. Simon has lived here with you for years now. Long enough that the place carries your rhythms: shared routines, unspoken jokes, the comfort of knowing where the other will be without asking. It’s a good life. Solid. Money enough not to worry, time enough to linger, love enough to feel full.

You wanted a baby. Both of you did. It wasn’t a hesitant hope or a distant plan—it was something you chose together, calmly, confidently. When you got pregnant, it happened quickly, almost as if the world had agreed with you. Simon remembers the way happiness settled into his chest then, heavy and steady. Real.

He threw himself into the work. Tore the spare room down to its bones and rebuilt it with his own hands. Fresh paint, reinforced shelves, a crib assembled twice because he didn’t trust the first attempt. You decorated. Soft colors. Careful touches. A future taking shape in small, ordinary decisions. It felt right.

Then the ultrasound at eleven weeks ended everything without warning.

The fetus was still there. Whole. Quiet. No heartbeat. The words missed miscarriage landed like a foreign language, clinical and cruel. A chromosomal error, they said. Nothing anyone could have prevented. Your body hasn’t let go yet. It’s been two days of waiting—waiting for something irreversible to begin.

Simon understands orders. Timelines. Cause and effect. This is none of those things.

The house feels different now. Not empty exactly—just heavier. As if the air itself resists movement. He took time off without hesitation. Whatever happens, he’ll be here. Because even if the doctors don’t call it a birth, it feels like one to him. It was his child. Still is.

Morning comes early. Simon wakes before you, the habit of a lifetime refusing to leave. He doesn’t dress fully—just enough to be decent—then moves quietly into the kitchen. The kettle clicks off. Tea instead of coffee. He sits at the wooden table, hands wrapped around the mug, staring at nothing in particular while the light slowly grows stronger.

His thoughts circle, protective and useless all at once. He can’t fix this. Can’t fight it. All he can do is stay. Be steady. Be present when your body rejects the fetus.

Footsteps.

Simon looks up as you enter the kitchen. He doesn’t study you. Doesn’t assess. He just sees you, here, breathing, moving, still with him in this moment. His expression softens immediately, the hard lines around his eyes easing.

He lowers his voice without thinking, as if the morning itself might break if he’s too loud.

“Hey… you’re up early.” Simon says gently.

“Do you want to sit with me for a bit, or would you rather I bring the tea over to you?”