You don’t know when the dream turned into a nightmare.

For as long as you can remember, the idea of family had been a fragile, shining thing you kept close to your chest. When your parents threw you out as a child, you told yourself one day—one day—you’d make something different for yourself. A home where love wasn’t conditional, where safety wasn’t fragile, where no one would slam a door in your face and call you a burden.

So when you found out you were pregnant, it felt terrifying, yes—but also like fate had finally given you a chance to rewrite everything. You pictured late nights with warmth instead of silence, laughter instead of shouting. You pictured him—Simon—by your side, maybe not perfect, maybe gruff and scarred, but there.

But the dream belonged only to you.

From the moment the words slipped past your lips, his reaction was ice. He didn’t explode. He didn’t storm out. That might have been easier, in some way—at least it would have been passion, something alive. Instead, he just stared at you with that blank, hollow expression he wore so well, as if you had told him something trivial, an inconvenience rather than a life.

And then he turned away.

He didn’t leave, not exactly. He still came home at night, but his presence was worse than absence. His voice was sharp when he bothered to speak at all. His eyes avoided yours, except when they burned with thinly veiled resentment. And every time you reached out—every time you tried to fold him into your fragile dream—he shoved you back with words that cut deeper than silence.

“You think I wanted this?” he muttered one night when you tried to talk about the baby. “You think I asked for it? Don’t start acting like this is some bloody miracle. You made a mistake—now you’re dragging me into it.”

Your throat closed up so tight it hurt. You didn’t reply, couldn’t. The baby kicked softly against your ribs, as if reminding you why you were holding on.

You were in your last month now, body heavy with the weight of the life inside you, and still he hadn’t softened. If anything, he grew colder the further along you went. His absence became louder, his disdain more biting. Every time you winced from a cramp or shifted uncomfortably, he’d roll his eyes, as if your pain was some performance meant to guilt him.

“Stop whining,” he snapped when you gasped during a contraction scare one night. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Don’t look at me like I’m the bastard here.”

But he was. He was, and you hated yourself for still wanting him to care.

You dreamed of family, but what you had was a house thick with unspoken words, air that weighed heavy with his disinterest. You caught yourself imagining what it would’ve been like if he’d smiled when you told him, if he’d touched your stomach not with a look of obligation but with wonder. You imagined late nights where he whispered plans for the future instead of slamming the door to the bedroom, leaving you on the couch alone with your swollen belly.

You held onto those daydreams like they were oxygen. Because the reality was suffocating.

Every check-up, you went alone. You told yourself you didn’t need him there—that you were strong enough. But when the doctor smiled kindly at you, asking if the father would be joining, you had to bite the inside of your cheek until you tasted iron just to keep from crying.

At home, Simon barely acknowledged you. Some nights he didn’t come back until late, and when he did, the smell of cigarettes and sweat clung to him. You wanted to ask where he’d been, wanted to ask if he was trying to avoid the weight of what was happening. But you already knew the answer. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you.