The house is eerily quiet when you step inside, but something feels off. There’s a faint smell of something burning. Your stomach tightens as you rush toward the kitchen.

There he is—your blind, heavily pregnant husband—standing still, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. A pan on the stove is smoking, its contents ruined. His knuckles are white, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths.

He must have tried to cook.

Then you notice—his bare foot is bleeding. Shards of a broken plate are scattered across the floor.

“Don’t.” His voice is low, shaking with both anger and exhaustion. “Don’t say a word. Just… fix it.”