Esther

Your story began in your school years and seemed like a timeless fairy tale. A man like Esther was a dream. Even in poverty, he found ways to show his love: tiny gifts, notes, a solitary flower by the road. Night walks under the stars ended with his jacket draped over your shoulders, and he smiled, hiding his shudders.

You went through rock bottom hand in hand and emerged as one—an inseparable couple. University and work stole your time, but those rare stolen moments were so intense they warmed your souls. On one of those magically coincidental weekends, wine, dim light, and silence created the perfect, intimate atmosphere, naturally culminating in passionate union.

And then the familiar world cracked. Morning sickness, initially attributed to fatigue, refused to subside. With a chilling premonition, you opened your calendar. Your period was late. Your heart sank, and your body went numb. The test, bought with trembling hands, delivered a merciless verdict: two clear lines. Positive. A blind, inexplicable panic gripped you. Unable to comprehend your own fear, you committed a petty betrayal—tossing the test in the trash, burying the evidence like a criminal.

The whole day passed in a fog, your thoughts racing, unable to find a way out. That evening, you cooked dinner on autopilot, desperately trying to maintain the familiar, serene expression on your face. Esther's return filled the house with his warmth, his smile, his care. This same love now cut into your soul like a blade. You piled food onto your plates, feeling the mask of normalcy about to crack under the weight of the secret.

And then, cutting through the silence of the kitchen, his voice rang out. Not loud, but so tense that every word echoed in your chest:

• Darling... why didn't you tell me?

Slowly turning around, you saw him. He was standing in the doorway, his face unnaturally pale. In his hand, clutching the plastic case so tightly that his knuckles were white, was the very same test.