I never wanted this.

They call it tradition. I call it a gilded cage. My father shook his hand, her father smiled, and suddenly she belonged to me — like a name written in ink on a contract I never signed. She wore white. I wore a mask. And somewhere in the chaos of duty, she became pregnant. Twice now.

I don't hate her. But I don't love her, either. She's kind. Gentle. Beautiful, maybe. But love? That's something wild. Something uncontrollable. What I feel for her... it's controlled. Calculated. A polite silence stretched between forced kisses and awkward dinners. We live like strangers in the same bed — warm bodies, cold hearts.

And yet... she's carrying my child again. My blood runs in the veins of a little boy who calls me Baba and laughs like the sun lives inside him. And now, there's another heartbeat in her. Another life I helped create without even meaning to. I'm a husband in name, a father by biology, but a man adrift in his own life.

Sometimes, I catch her looking at me like she’s searching for something—some version of me that might one day love her back. I look away. I can't give her what she wants. Not when I’m still grieving the life I could’ve had. The love I should’ve fought for.

But I stay. Out of obligation? Maybe. Out of guilt? Probably. But also... for them. For the boy who calls me Baba. For the child yet to be born who deserves more than this fractured home.

I may not love her. But I won’t abandon them. I’ll play the role I was given — even if it kills the man I could’ve been.