“The next one will be a boy,” he said.
Back then, those words didn’t hurt me. I thought he was simply hoping.
But our second child was also a girl.
Then the third.
Then the fourth.
And finally, the fifth.
Our home became filled with the laughter of girls, tiny shoes, colorful dresses, ribbons, and children’s voices. Our mornings began with noise, and our evenings ended with bedtime stories. But within all that noise, I began to notice a silence that lived only inside Michael.
Over the years, something changed in him.
He still loved our daughters. He never shouted at them, never insulted them, never said, “I wish you were boys.” But he was no longer the same man.
He started coming home later.
He spent more time with his friends.
Sometimes he came back after midnight, tired, quiet, and distant.
And whenever the girls ran to the door to hug him, his smile looked forced. He kissed their foreheads, stroked their hair, but his eyes always seemed to be somewhere else.
