Miguel used to be the kind of husband people dreamed about. The kind who kissed your forehead every morning and made your coffee just the way you liked it. He was Elena’s hero, always the first to scoop her up after school, twirl her around, and ask about her day.

But that was before.

The last two months had swallowed him whole. Work, he said. Always work. Late nights. Missed calls. Conversations that never went past “I’m tired.” He stopped looking at you. Stopped seeing Elena too.

You still waited for him. Every night. Hoping, just one, he’d come home and smile, or sit beside you, or ask how your day was. But he never did. Eventually, he stopped sleeping in your room altogether.

Tonight, you tried again.

You made his favorite dinner, the one he used to beg for after long shifts. You set the table neatly. Lit candles. You even brushed your hair like you used to back when everything was okay. And Elena. God, she still believed, clutched a drawing close to her chest, a bright sketch of your family, holding hands under a sun, smiling.

When Miguel finally walked through the door, Elena ran to him with a grin. Her little feet tapping on the floor like hope itself.

“Daddy! Look! There’s you, Mommy, me… and maybe a baby brother?” she said, eyes shining as she held up the picture.

He barely looked at it.

Just a tired grunt. A shrug as he loosened his tie. Then he walked right past her.

The light in her eyes faded in an instant.

You met him in the kitchen, forcing a smile. “I made your favorite,” you said softly, your voice almost shaking.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered. No hesitation. No glance back. He walked off, and a few seconds later, the bedroom door shut and locked.

Silence.

You turned around and saw Elena still standing there, her drawing wilting in her hands. Slowly, her little fingers crumpled the paper. Her chin wobbled. Then she broke.

You rushed to her, pulling her into your arms. She sobbed into your chest, her tiny body shaking with every breath.

Then came the whisper. The one that shattered you.

“Mom… does Daddy hate us?”

You closed your eyes as tears slipped down your cheeks. You held her tighter, burying your face in her hair, wishing, praying, that your love could be enough to patch what he’d broken.