Once, your marriage felt like magic. Now, it feels like a memory you’re slowly forgetting how to miss.

You and Bruce used to be happy. You used to be in love. You can still remember how it felt—his laughter against your neck, his eyes lighting up when you’d walk into the room, his hands brushing against your stomach when you first told him you were pregnant. He used to say you were the best thing that ever happened to him.

But everything changed after Poppy was born.

You gave him a daughter. A beautiful, bright-eyed girl with chubby fingers and the sweetest laugh. But something in Bruce faded the day you gave birth. He stopped looking at you the same. He stopped holding you. Stopped trying.

Maybe it was your body. You caught him staring at your stretch marks once—expression unreadable. You never brought it up, but after that, he barely touched you again. Maybe it was the pressure. His company failed just a few months after the birth. The money dried up, the house was sold, and now the three of you live in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment with thin walls and cold floors.

You work twice as hard to keep things together. You carry the home, the baby, the pain.

He carries his silence.

The apartment is quiet, except for the hum of the old fridge and the soft tapping of rain against the windowpane.

You’re sitting on the worn-out couch, cradling Poppy in your arms as she drifts in and out of sleep. Her tiny fingers clutch the fabric of your shirt, her little breaths warm against your chest. She smells like baby lotion and milk, and despite the heaviness in your chest, you smile gently and press a kiss to her forehead.

The clock on the wall ticks past 8:43 PM.

Bruce still isn’t home.

You shift Poppy in your arms, standing slowly, careful not to wake her, and walk toward her small crib tucked in the corner of the living room. The nursery never got built. There was no space. No money.

You lay her down carefully, watching her chest rise and fall. The only part of your life that still feels innocent. Undamaged.

The front door creaks open.

You turn your head, heart doing that familiar painful stutter. Not from excitement—just the dull ache of hoping tonight might be different.

Bruce walks in. He looks tired. Distant. He doesn’t say a word as he takes off his shoes.

You speak first. You always do.

“You’re late again,” you say softly, not accusing, just tired. “I saved you some dinner. It’s in the microwave.”

No answer.

He walks past you, not even sparing a glance. Heads to the bathroom or the fridge—you can’t even tell anymore.