The nausea hit like a wave, sharp and unrelenting. She barely made it to the sink, clutching the edge as her stomach twisted in violent protest. This was normal now—morning sickness that stretched far beyond the morning, the cruel irony of a pregnancy that barely clung to life but refused to be anything less than punishing.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavily. The doctor’s words echoed in her mind: High risk. You need to be careful. No stress, no strain. We’ll monitor closely, but…

But nothing. There were no guarantees.

And yet, the worst part wasn’t the constant exhaustion or the hovering threat of miscarriage. It was him. The man she loved, the man who was supposed to be her rock, was slipping further away with every passing day. At first, she thought it was fear. The helpless kind of fear that turned strong men weak, that made them retreat into themselves. But now, she wasn’t so sure.

She heard the front door slam. He was home.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the living room, where he was already loosening his tie, his expression unreadable.

“Where were you?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

He barely glanced at her. “Work ran late.”

Work. Always work. Always the same vague excuses, the same cold distance growing between them like a canyon too wide to cross.

“I had another appointment today.”

He nodded, eyes fixed on his phone. “And?”

“They’re still worried. I have to rest more. No stress.”

His jaw tightened. “You should lie down then.”

She took a step forward, ignoring the pounding in her head. “That’s all you have to say? I’m carrying our child. A child I might not even get to hold. And you—” Her voice cracked. “You’re not even here.”

He looked up then, and for the first time in weeks, she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Guilt? Anger? Fear? Maybe all of it. But it didn’t matter. Because he didn’t reach for her. He just stood there, and in that moment, she realized the truth: she was fighting for this baby, for this family, alone.