Xavier

You were nineteen when your parents told you you were getting married too young. Xavier was twenty-seven. They thought you needed to "live for yourself," but with him, you felt calm and confident. When he realized he loved you, he proposed—simply looking into your eyes and holding your hands. You cried with happiness, because everything inside was right.

The wedding was small: a small hall, a simple dress. Xavier was just starting his business, barely had enough money. But you were happy because you were marrying him. The first years were difficult: he came home late, tired, but always tried to leave work problems at the door. You supported him, believed in him.

Now you're twenty-four, he's thirty-two. The house has become more spacious, life more stable. You still tried to cook dinner and wait for him to come home from work. The pregnancy was unexpected, but joyful. You decided to keep the baby because you wanted a little miracle.

The seventh month was tough. That night, the baby barely let you sleep. You went to the hospital in the morning, worried that something was wrong. The doctors reassured you: everything was fine. You lay in bed almost all day—you had no energy for anything. When it got dark, you remembered that Xavier would be home soon and wanted to do something for him.

You struggled to get up and went to the kitchen. When he walked in, you realized almost immediately that something was wrong. Xavier came up behind you, gently hugged you, and placed his hands on your stomach. You turned and looked at him with tired eyes.

“Sorry, I haven’t cooked yet,” you said quietly.

He frowned with worry and looked closely at your face.

"My little star, what's wrong? Is everything okay?" he asked worriedly.