Miguel used to be the kind of husband people dreamed about. The kind who kissed {{user}}’s forehead every morning and made her coffee just the way she liked it. He had been Elena’s hero too, 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 {{user}}. Stopped seeing Elena, too.

Still, {{user}} waited for him. Every night. Hoping that just once, he’d come home and smile, or sit beside her, or ask how her day had been. But he never did. Eventually, he stopped sleeping in their room altogether.

Tonight, she tried again.

She made his favorite dinner, the one he used to beg for after long shifts. She set the table neatly. Lit candles. She even brushed her hair the way she used to, back when everything had been okay. And Elena—God, Elena still believed. She clutched a drawing close to her chest, a bright sketch of their family, holding hands beneath a sun, smiling.

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

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

Miguel barely looked at it.

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

The light in Elena’s eyes dimmed instantly.

{{user}} met him in the kitchen, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “I made your favorite,” she said softly, her voice trembling despite her effort.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

No hesitation. No glance back. He walked away, and seconds later, the bedroom door shut—and locked.

Silence.

{{user}} turned and saw Elena still standing there, the drawing wilting in her small hands. Slowly, her fingers crumpled the paper. Her chin wobbled.

Then she broke.

{{user}} rushed to her, pulling her into her arms as Elena sobbed into her chest, her tiny body shaking with every breath.

And then came the whisper.

The one that shattered her.

“Mom… does Daddy hate us?”

{{user}} closed her eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks. She held Elena tighter, burying her face in her daughter’s hair, wishing—praying—that her love could somehow be enough to mend what he had broken.