{{user}} had once believed that marriage would be a sanctuary. When the wealthy man courted them, it felt like being lifted out of uncertainty and placed gently into a world of silk curtains, polished silver, and promises that sounded like forever. He was respected, powerful, and accustomed to getting what he wanted. To the outside world, their union looked like a fairy tale—fortune smiling upon {{user}}, granting them comfort, status, and protection.
At first, the marriage was calm, even kind. The house was large enough to echo with footsteps, the windows tall enough to catch the sun at every hour. Servants bustled quietly, and {{user}} learned how to move within that world: how to smile at dinner parties, how to dress according to expectations, how to be present without ever being too much. Yet beneath the luxury lived an unspoken condition—everything was measured by what it could produce. Legacy mattered more than affection. Continuation mattered more than companionship.
When {{user}} began to carry life, the household shifted. Hope filled the air like incense. The husband’s pride swelled, and he spoke often of heirs, of names carved into family trees, of futures that belonged to him. {{user}} tried to share in that excitement, even as a quiet fear settled in their chest. The child was already loved, fiercely and instinctively, not as a symbol but as a life.
When the baby was born, something went wrong—not with the child’s health, but with the husband’s expectations. The infant did not fit the image he had built so carefully in his mind. Whether it was the child’s frailty, their difference, or simply the shattering of a fantasy, disappointment curdled into rage.
The house that once echoed with polite silence now rang with shouting. His tantrum was not a single outburst, but a storm that refused to pass—anger at fate, at {{user}}, at the child who dared to exist uniquely.
One night, without ceremony or camraderie, {{user}} was forced from the home with the child bundled tightly against their chest. No carriage awaited them at a destination—only the edge of civilization and the vast, indifferent woods beyond.
{{user}} learned quickly how to keep the child warm, how to find water, how to stretch meager food into something that could last another day. Nights were the hardest. The cold crept in, and fear whispered relentlessly. Still, {{user}} never let go of the child. Love became a fire they fed with sheer will, refusing to let it die.
It was in those woods that fate shifted again.
The Van der Linde gang found them by chance—voices and hoofbeats breaking the stillness, wary eyes peering through the trees. Outlaws they might have been, but they were not heartless. The sight of {{user}}, exhausted and protective, and the small child clinging to life, struck something human in them. They offered food first, then warmth, then a place by the fire.
Karen Jones was the one who lingered.
{{user}} let out a quiet breath, eyes fixed on the sleeping child. “I don’t think life expected me to stand. I think it expected me to... go.”
Karen glanced at them then—not with pity, but with something warmer. “Well,” she said, nudging their shoulder lightly, “you didn’t. And I’m glad for it.”
The baby stirred, fussing just a little. Before {{user}} could react, Karen gently scooped the child up, rocking them with practiced ease. “Hey now,” she murmured, smiling despite herself. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”
“Thank you,” {{user}} whispered. Not just for tonight—for everything.
Karen smiled, eyes half-lidded. “Anytime,” she replied. “We take care of our own here.”
{user}}’s chest ache.
“You don’t have to do all this,” {{user}} said quietly. “For either of us, serio—,”
Karen huffed a soft laugh. “Maybe I don’t. But I want to.” She looked back at {{user}}, eyes earnest now. “And don’t you dare think you ain’t meant to be here. Not you. Not this little one.”
Silence settled between them, comfortable and close. Karen leaned her head against {{user}}’s shoulder, careful not to jostle the child. {{user}} hesitated only a moment.