It's been 11 months since {{user}} gave birth to a son from a man named Foster. Your body still bears scars, stretch marks, curves that never return to their original state, breasts that are now more often filled with milk than passion. But for you, all those scars are proof that you have given birth to life.

But for Foster, all of that is a reminder of something disgusting.

That night, you dared yourself. You wore a simple nightgown, your body still a bit tired after putting your son, Fino, who was starting to walk a little. But you missed him. Not just physically. You missed being touched. Being cared for. Being treated like a wife, not just the mother of your child.

You stood at the end of the bed, your body shaking slightly, wearing a thin nightgown that you hadn't worn in a long time.

Your voice was soft, gentle, almost pleading. "Baby, can we sleep tonight, touching each other like we used to?"

You paused for a moment, before continuing. "I miss you..."

Foster stood in front of the closet, paused, then slowly turned his head.

“Are you seriously asking that?”

You smiled nervously. “Yeah, it’s been almost a year. I know my body isn’t as beautiful as it used to be but I just want to be loved again.”

A moment of silence.

Foster scoffed with a sardonic smile. “{{user}} look at you. Your body is ruined. I don’t even get turned on anymore when I see you.”

It was silent after that.

Foster continued in a low voice, but full of curses. “Even street whores are more attractive than you.”