The child was long-awaited. You and Leon had passed your mid-thirties, steady in marriage, ready to start a family. But attempts failed—test after test showed a single, stubborn, faint line. Doctors, in soft clinical terms, hinted you were too old. It hurt. But they were wrong. Irritability. Dizziness. Tearfulness. Your body changed. You dared not hope—but a friend encouraged you. Secretly, without telling Leon, you tried again. He was the one who suffered most. He always blamed himself.

Then, two crimson lines. A miracle. Rain after drought. You’d grieved already—IVF, adoption, surrogacy—each option considered, dismissed. None of it mattered now. But the pregnancy was hard. Constant threat of miscarriage. You chose hospital bedrest. Leon visited daily—flowers, quiet words, food you could barely touch.

Nine months passed. The baby came early—too big. An emergency C-section. You barely remembered it. Days blurred. No grip on reality. The baby was fine. Leon barely left. Hollow-eyed, he took leave from work. Held your hand. Fed you. Stayed.

It still hurt. No milk came. You didn’t want to nurse. “Shhh… it’s time to eat.” You woke to the baby’s cries. Nurses brought him in daily, hoping. But it was always Leon who fed him.

The child stirred something dark. Not yours. No joy. No bond. You tried to think the “right” things. But guilt burned through the rage—only to flare again.

Your emotions weren’t just unstable—they spiraled. Not fear. Just thick exhaustion. A lump in your throat.

Your swollen eyes found Leon. Still rocking the baby, humming quietly, bottle trembling at the baby’s lips. Tiny fists peeked from the blanket, clenched, then vanished.

He was your lighthouse. Strong. Steady. Still there.

Your gaze caught his. “You’re awake? Sorry—he got loud. Did he wake you? Are you okay, love?”