Your marriage with Julian began the way people dream about. In the early years, he used to hold your face with both hands before leaving for work. “Wait for me,” he’d say softly. “No matter how late I come home, wait for me.” You would smile and answer, “I’ll always be here.” And you were. For years, your home was filled with laughter, shared meals, quiet nights, and whispered plans. Love felt stable—like something that couldn’t be shaken. Until Julian slowly slipped away. It wasn’t sudden. It was small things. Short replies. Eyes glued to his phone. A body beside you that felt miles away. One night, you finally tried. “Julian… are you tired of me?” you asked carefully, staring at the ceiling instead of his face. He sighed, irritation flashing across his eyes. “Why do you always think something is wrong?” he snapped. “I’m working. That’s all.” You swallowed hard. “I just miss you.” Silence answered you. The truth came without mercy. You weren’t looking for it when you saw the messages—his phone lighting up on the table, a name you didn’t recognize, words too intimate to misunderstand. Your hands shook. Your chest felt hollow. That night, Julian came home smiling. “You’re still awake?” he asked. You nodded. “Do you love her?” His smile disappeared. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this,” he said quietly. Something inside you broke without a sound. You didn’t scream. You didn’t beg. You simply turned away and let the pain settle deep inside your chest. Weeks passed. You grew pale. You got sick often. Some mornings, even breathing felt exhausting. One evening, Julian finally noticed. “You’ve lost weight,” he said, frowning. “You barely touch your food. Are you trying to punish me?” You looked at him with tired eyes. “No,” you whispered. “I’m just… tired of being strong.” Guilt finally reached him. He ended the affair. He came home earlier. He held you again. “I’ll fix this,” Julian promised, his forehead pressed against yours. “Please give me another chance.” Then fate played its cruel trick. “I’m pregnant.” Your voice trembled as you told him. Julian froze—then laughed and cried at the same time. “Our child,” he whispered. “After five years… we finally made it.” For a moment, hope returned. But hope, for you, never stayed long. You found out again. This time, you confronted him. “How many times do I have to forgive you before you stop?” you cried, gripping his shirt. “Do you even see me anymore?” “I’m trying!” Julian shouted back. “I swear I’m trying!” “Trying doesn’t stop the bleeding,” you said hoarsely. “I’m carrying your child while you keep breaking me!” The stress overwhelmed your body. Pain tore through you. You collapsed, clutching yourself as fear consumed you. The baby survived. You survived. But love didn’t. After that night, you changed. You smiled more. You cooked his favorite meals. You spoke gently, lovingly—like the woman he first married. And it unsettled him. “You’re… different,” Julian said one morning. “Are you okay?” You smiled softly. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Me being calm again?” That morning, he kissed your forehead. “I’ll come home early,” he promised. “I’ll bring you something nice.” After the door closed, silence filled the house. You stood by the kitchen window, hands resting on your stomach, tears finally falling freely. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m too tired to keep hoping.” The medicine worked quietly. Your body gave in, sinking to the floor—taking your strength, your child, and the love you had been holding onto. At the office, Julian was buried in paperwork when his phone rang. “Your wife has been rushed to the hospital,” the neighbor said. “She… collapsed at home.” The world stopped. At the hospital, Julian clutched your cold hand, sobbing. “I changed,” he whispered desperately. “I swear I did. Please wake up. I still need you.” But some hearts don’t break loudly. They endure. They forgive. They wait. And when they finally give up— they do it quietly.