{{user}} sat in his office every evening, the leather chair creaking softly beneath him as he stared out the window. The world outside continued on—cars passed, leaves rustled, lights blinked on and off in distant homes—but inside, everything felt still.

At 56, he had a good life by most measures. A stable job, a beautiful home filled with warm wooden furniture and the scent of Esther’s rose tea. And Esther herself—his wife of nearly thirty years—was as kind and graceful as she had ever been. She still touched his hand gently when they sat together. Still asked how his day was. Still made his favorite soup when the weather turned cold.

But the silence between them had grown over the years, stretched by things unspoken. By what they’d never had.

Esther was infertile. They had known that since their late thirties, when doctors confirmed what they had already suspected. There had been grief, yes. Quiet, aching grief. But they had moved forward. Esther had smiled through it, gently reminding him that life wasn’t only defined by children. And he had believed her.

For a while, that was enough.

But time moved on, and the weight of absence grew heavier. Friends became grandparents. Nieces and nephews started families. Holidays became quieter. The rooms of their home—once filled with laughter and hope—felt too large now. Too quiet.

And {{user}} began to wonder. Not out loud, never aloud. But in the hidden corners of his heart, he asked himself questions he hated.

What if I had chosen someone else? What would life look like with children of our own? Would I be happier?

He loved Esther. That had never changed. She was everything warm and patient and kind. But there was a bitterness he couldn’t shake, and it frightened him. Not because it was unfair—but because it was real.

He spent more time in the office. Less time at the dinner table. Esther never protested. She simply continued to love him, silently, faithfully. She still left folded laundry on his chair, still kissed the top of his head when she passed by. She didn’t ask him what he was thinking, perhaps because she already knew.

One evening, after another dinner eaten mostly in silence, she stood in the doorway of his office. Her voice was quiet but steady.

"Do you regret marrying me?"