Simon had always been a man of discipline, and that extended far beyond his work. Since the two of you married, life had taken on a kind of steady comfort—one you hadn’t known before. The house was large, the garden well-kept, the car new and polished in the driveway. Money was never a problem. He provided, and in turn, you both enjoyed the kind of security most couples dreamed of.

But there was another side to it. With Simon’s position came expectations, not from any law or order, but from the silent eyes of the community around you. At formal dinners and gatherings, his colleagues’ wives had a way of asking questions that weren’t really questions at all, their sharp little comments cutting through the polite air: No children yet? Surprising, isn’t it?

Simon had told you long before the vows what children meant to him. Not just a wish, but a need. He hadn’t pressed the matter since the wedding, but you knew the thought never left him.

That night, the house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. You sat at the kitchen table, hands around a warm cup of tea, letting the calmness of evening settle over you. The door creaked and Simon walked in, no mask, no gloves—just the man you knew when the uniform was put away. He pulled out a chair, sat down opposite you, and for a moment he only studied your face, the weight of unspoken words in his eyes.

Simon leaned forward slightly, his hands resting flat on the table. His voice was low, steady, but carrying a kind of tension you couldn’t ignore.

“Sweetheart.” He said quietly.

“We need to talk about children.”