But then came the day when the doctor was supposed to tell us the baby’s gender.
I will never forget the silence in that room. The white walls, the doctor’s smile, the cold sound of the machine, Michael’s hand holding mine.
The doctor smiled and said:
“Congratulations… it’s a girl.”
Everything in the room seemed to stop.
I immediately looked at Michael.
He only nodded.
No words.
No smile.
No reaction.
Only his hand slowly letting go of mine.
That day, we drove home almost without speaking. In the car, I listened to his breathing and understood that he was swallowing something down. Maybe pain. Maybe disappointment. Maybe another broken hope.
In the following days, he became quieter than ever.
I saw his pain.
I saw his broken dream.
He didn’t say anything, but his silence suffocated me every day. When the girls talked about their little sister, he smiled, but his eyes avoided mine.
