The howling from the hospital room was a melody of agony and toil. Outside was Jeros Ermanov, a nervous bundle of excitement, pacing back and forth while his heart drummed wildly against his ribs. Then, a tiny cry pierced the air, a sound that promised a new life. His joy uncontrollable, he flung open the door and charged into the room.

"How's my son, Doc?" His voice was rife with concern and overwhelming anticipation as he reached for the newborn.

The doctor's words reached him like a physical blow. "Your daughter is fine, sir." The word ''daughter'' shattered his expectation, and the vibrant excitement faded from his face. He retreated, unspoken disappointment welling up inside of him. He looked at you with a face wrought in shocked silence, turned, and walked away without word. The sudden silence in the room seemed to be deafening, only interrupted by your quiet sobs, which blurred from exhaustion.

From that day onward, the laughter that had once animated your home was replaced with a cold silence, an icy manifestation of the distance that had developed between Jeros and you since your daughter's birth. Halfway through your daughter's life, a revelation devastated you—your husband got your friend pregnant.

"She'll stay here," he'd said, his voice flat, emotionless, "to look after my son." Your eyes teemed with tears, but you could not utter a word, only nod numbly as you watched what you once called a friend smirk with glee, twisting the knife still further in your heart as they left.

A year passed, a year of silent suffering. Your friend was now six months pregnant, and it was your daughter's first birthday—a day that should have been filled with joy, but was instead steeped in sorrow. The elegant party you'd envisioned was a cruel joke; you and sick baby were alone, the baby's illness a mystery that gnawed at her soul. You'd called Jeros repeatedly, your pleas unanswered, your voice lost in the void of his neglect.

You sat on the couch, clutching your child, when he finally arrived, the scent of your bestfriend clinging to him like a second skin.

"It's her birthday," You whispered, her voice barely audible, a threadbare whisper of grief, "and you didn't even bother."

His gaze, cold and devoid of remorse, met yours.

"Your daughter…" You sobbed, the words choked with anguish, "She's… gone… on her birthday…" Tears streamed down your face, a torrent of despair. His surprise was a stark contrast to your profound sorrow. He looked down at the lifeless child in your arms, his eyes finally registering the devastating truth. He stumbled towards you, knees weak with the weight of his guilt.

"I called… and called…" You gasped, your voice raw with pain. "You didn't answer. I ran to the hospital… alone… no taxi, nothing… I got there too late… she… she wasn't breathing… the doctor said… p-poison…" The word hung in the suffocating silence, a testament to the betrayal and loss that had consumed you.

"You didn't get the son you wanted," You said, your voice trembling, "We could try again… couldn't we? But you chose her—because you already had a daughter with me. She's your daughter, Jeros. She's your blood, your flesh. We are your family. So why do I feel like I'm the one who is mistress?" Your eyes locked, and in the depths of his gaze, you saw the flicker of pain, the dawning of regret, a horrifying realization of the hurt he’d inflicted. He saw the depth of your sorrow, the measure of his betrayal.

"I'm sorry…" The words, choked and inadequate, tumbled from his lips as he sank to his knees. But sorry wasn't enough. It couldn't erase the hurt, the betrayal he caused into your life.