“Don’t forget the file,” he says, already holding the car keys, jacket pressed crisp against his shoulders. His voice is flat—like always lately. No warmth. Just instruction.

You clutch the folder to your chest, following him in silence. It’s the appointment—the one where you’ll find out the gender. But the excitement is missing.

Nothing has been the same since the miscarriage. Months ago, you’d both stared at the ultrasound screen in a cold, silent room, waiting for a heartbeat that never came. You cried. He didn’t. Just clenched his fists and walked out.

Now you’re pregnant again, and he’s been colder than ever. But underneath it, there’s something else—his hand on your back as you walk into the clinic, his eyes scanning the room like he’s guarding something precious. He’d kill for this baby. Protect it with everything he has.

But love? Joy?

That died with the first one.