The marriage was slipping through your fingers, piece by piece. Arguments had become routine, silence stretched longer than words, and when Simon came home these days, it felt like he was walking into a stranger’s house instead of his own.

You told yourself it wasn’t too late — it couldn’t be. You were carrying his child, the living proof of a life you once thought you’d build together, and you couldn’t just let it all fall apart without trying.

So you tried something new. Something small.

The first evening, when you heard his boots at the door, you forced a smile through your exhaustion, padded over, and greeted him. Just a simple, “Welcome home,” but you put warmth into it, softness. You saw the way his eyes flicked to you, surprised, before he muttered a quiet “Hey” and brushed past you. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

The second evening, you gathered all your courage. As soon as he stepped through the door, you wrapped your arms around him — belly pressed awkwardly against the stiff gear on his chest — and let out a little chuckle. “I think I’m going to start doing this,” you teased softly, looking up at him with the faintest glimmer of hope in your eyes. “Greeting you every day when you come home.”

For a heartbeat, you imagined he might smile. That maybe, just maybe, he’d lean down and kiss your forehead, tell you he missed you, that he was glad to be home. That this small effort might plant a seed in the cracks of your crumbling marriage.

Instead, Simon stiffened, his shoulders tense beneath your touch. He sighed sharply, his voice low, gruff, and unkind.

“Bloody hell, just… leave me alone, yeah? Give me at least ten minutes to breathe.”

Your hands fell from him instantly, as though his words had burned. The little laugh you’d let out earlier died in your throat, leaving behind a painful silence. You stepped back, pressing a hand to your swollen belly, trying to ignore the sting in your chest.

“Right,” you whispered, forcing steadiness into your voice as you turned away. “Ten minutes.”

You disappeared down the hall before the tears could fall, the ache in your chest heavier than the child you carried. Because you weren’t just greeting him at the door — you were trying to remind him there was still something worth saving. Something worth coming home to.

And he didn’t even see it.