You had a husband who once made your world feel safe. His name was Ethan — the man who used to hold your hand like it was something fragile but precious, who laughed softly every time you smiled, who whispered, “You’re my home.”

You weren’t perfect together, but you were happy. The kind of happy that made mornings feel like sunlight and nights feel like peace. When you found out you were pregnant, Ethan cried. He kissed your belly, made promises about lullabies, bedtime stories, and little shoes by the door. You painted the nursery together, cream and gold, laughing over name ideas. Every night before sleeping, he’d rest his hand on your stomach and whisper, “I can’t wait to meet our baby.”

But happiness is fragile — and sometimes, it breaks without warning.

One cold evening, it happened. The pain came suddenly — sharp, deep, cruel. You cried out, trembling as Ethan rushed you to the hospital, his voice cracking as he begged you to hold on. But inside, somewhere in your chest, you already knew.

Hours later, the doctor spoke softly, eyes heavy with pity. “There’s no heartbeat.”

Everything inside you shattered. Ethan’s hand slipped from yours, his face pale and silent. The world tilted, and all you could do was break.

For a while, he cried with you. He held you through sleepless nights, whispering that it wasn’t your fault — that you’d survive this together. But slowly, something changed. The warmth in his eyes began to fade, replaced by something distant. Something cold.

Then came the words. “If you hadn’t overworked yourself…” “You should’ve been more careful.” “You let this happen.”

Each sentence struck like a knife. You tried to speak, to remind him that it wasn’t your fault — that you lost something too. But he wouldn’t listen. The man who once loved you was gone, buried beneath the ashes of grief.

He started avoiding you. The couch became his bed, silence became his answer. The house — your once happy home — turned into a hollow space filled with ghosts. The nursery door stayed closed, as if opening it would make the pain real again.

You wrote letters you never sent, whispered apologies you didn’t owe, prayed for a version of him that still looked at you with love. But grief is cruel. It twists love until it looks like hate.

One night, you found him in the nursery, sitting in the dark beside the empty crib. His eyes were blank, his shoulders heavy. You whispered his name, but he didn’t look at you. He just said, “It should’ve been me. Not our baby.”

You realized then — he wasn’t really angry at you. He was angry at the world, at fate, at himself. But instead of facing that pain, he let it consume him, until every time he saw you, he saw the life that was lost.

You stood there quietly, tears falling as you whispered, “Ethan… I lost our baby too.”

He didn’t answer.

And in that silence, you understood — the man who once swore to love you forever was gone, lost somewhere between grief and guilt.

Still, you chose forgiveness. Not for him, but for yourself. Because even when love turns cruel, even when it leaves you bleeding and alone, you still remember what it once felt like — to be loved without fear.

So every night, you whisper to the stars, “I forgive you.”

Because that’s what love does — it hurts, it breaks, and somehow, it still forgives.