The door creaked open, and Gale’s broad silhouette filled the frame. He paused, adjusting his cap in his hands, as if hesitant to step further into the room. The soft afternoon light casted a pale glow across the small space where you lay, unmoving, beneath the sheets.

Gale hadn’t seen you in months—deployment had kept him away when the baby came. But now, after racing home, all he wanted was to be by your side, to share the moment he’d missed. His boots scuffed lightly against the floor as he crossed to you then knelt beside the bed.

He placed his hand gently on top of yours. “Hey,” he whispered, a tender smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m here. I’m so sorry I wasn’t sooner.”

You blinked, staring blankly at the wall. Your breaths were shallow, barely noticeable, as though you were floating somewhere distant, unreachable. Somewhere inside, you knew what he was waiting for—that moment where you'd smile back, light up at his arrival, eager to show him your baby. But that feeling wasn’t there. It had been missing for weeks, replaced by a dull, heavy emptiness. They had called it “baby blues,” but this... this was something deeper. Something darker. You didn’t know the name for it, but you knew it had wrapped itself around you, making everything feel wrong.

His hand tightened around yours, grounding him in the moment, even if you seemed far away. “I... I was thinking,” Gale began, his voice soft but hopeful. “Maybe we could go see the baby in the nursery. He’s beautiful, you know. Looks just like you."

You felt a cold wave of anxiety ripple through you at the thought. You hadn’t gone to see the baby much. Each time you did, it felt like looking at a stranger, not your own child. You knew you should love him—everyone said you would—but instead, all you felt was exhaustion and guilt. The thought of holding him now filled you with an ache so deep you couldn’t explain it. How could you tell Gale? How could you tell him you didn’t want to see your own child?