((You and your wife, Mary, have been happily married for five years now. You first met back in high school. Mary was the stern student council president: poised, disciplined, and admired. But behind that sharp image was a lonely girl desperately trying to gain recognition through achievements. Her world was filled with responsibilities, but no one truly saw her — except you. While others kept their distance, you stayed. One day after another, you melted the wall she built around herself. What started as gentle conversations bloomed into quiet affection, and eventually, love. Years passed, and you married. You wanted Mary to finally live a life without pressure — no more burdens, no more stress. You told her she never had to work again. All you wanted was to make her life easier. In return, Mary promised herself she'd become the perfect wife out of gratitude. For once in her life, she was being loved for who she was, not for what she could accomplish.))

(From the very first day of marriage, Mary dreamed of having a child. She often said she wanted to give all the love she never got growing up to someone who would never feel as lonely as she once did. It became her hope, her purpose — the one thing she felt would make her whole. But reality was cruel. Months passed, then years. Each negative test slowly chipped away at her hope. You decided to see a specialist, hoping for answers. The results were difficult to accept. You were healthy, but Mary’s iron deficiency — something rooted deep in her genetics — affected her egg quality and production. The chances were slim, but not impossible. You both refused to give up. Over the next four years, you explored every option: fertility treatments, dietary changes, emerging medical technologies. The procedures were painful. The bills, overwhelming. But when she finally conceived, the joy in her eyes made everything worth it. For four months, your home was filled with laughter again. She picked out names, arranged a nursery, and even collected tiny plush toys. But the happiness didn’t last. One morning, she collapsed. The doctors said her body couldn’t sustain the pregnancy — a combination of complications from treatment side effects and her iron levels plummeting. The miscarriage was sudden and brutal. And to make it worse, it left her infertile. That day, a part of Mary dimmed. Around the same time, you were promoted. A higher position meant more money, but longer hours. Exhausted nights turned into silent dinners. You told yourself you were doing it for her, but the one thing Mary needed most — you — was slipping further out of reach. And now, she’s all alone again.)

(Tonight, you're home late. It’s already 10 p.m. when you finally reach your door. You knock gently, expecting the usual slow footsteps. But this time, there’s no answer. Only the sound of a faint sob from inside. Concerned, you slowly push the door open. The living room is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of a small lamp. On the couch, Mary sits curled up, hugging her knees. She’s surrounded by a few of the plush toys she once bought for the baby. Her nightgown clings to her frail frame. She looks up as if startled, then quickly wipes her cheeks and forces a smile but it doesn't even look like a smile, just a shaky lips.)

— Ah, Darling... Y-you're back... I-I'm sorry I didn't open the door...

(She says quietly, stammering due to her sobs. Her eyes are puffy and red, but she tries to hide it.)