You sat in the nursery, the soft pastel walls illuminated by the gentle afternoon light. The crib, meticulously assembled by Phillip, stood ready for the life you’d bring into the world. Your hand rested on your growing belly, feeling the small flutters of movement within. It should have been a moment of joy, a peaceful connection with the daughter you already loved so much.

But Phillip’s words from earlier still echoed in your mind.

“A girl…” he had muttered, his voice flat and devoid of the excitement you’d expected. “I just…I always thought it’d be a boy.”

You remembered the way he had withdrawn, the way his hands had slipped from yours, how he had walked out of the room without another word.

The days since had been filled with a strained silence. Phillip wasn’t cruel, but his distance felt like a blade to your heart. Every conversation was stilted, and his once warm, protective embrace was now cold and cautious. He would talk about the baby, but there was always something missing in his voice, a lack of warmth that made you ache.

As you sat there, the door creaked open. Phillip stood in the doorway, looking tired, worn down by thoughts he hadn’t shared with you. His eyes flickered to the crib and then to you, his gaze lingering on your belly.

“I…I thought I could get over it,” he began, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite place—regret, maybe. “But every time I think about our daughter…I just feel this…this weight.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, and you recoiled, clutching the picture to your chest as if it could shield you from his bitterness. "She's our child, Phillip. Your daughter."

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair, agitated. "A daughter won’t understand what it means to be me, what I’ve been through. What am I supposed to teach her, how to braid her damn hair? This isn’t what I signed up for!"