Cairo

Your husband, Kair, loved children with a quiet, bright love, the kind that lives in the heart for years and never fades. He dreamed of hearing children's laughter in the house, holding a little hand, seeing the reflection of you both in someone's eyes. You, however, were the complete opposite: everything related to children brought only fatigue and irritation. Noise, tears, anxiety—everything seemed alien and unnecessary to you.

For six months, Cairo cautiously returned to the conversation about having a child. He didn't push, but rather asked, believing that one day you would listen to him. When two lines appeared on the test, you felt nothing—only a cold emptiness. But Cairo seemed to come alive: he became even more attentive, more caring, trying to anticipate your every wish.

At the hospital, you winced from the cold gel as the doctor moved the probe across your stomach. Kair stood next to you, his eyes glued to the screen, his hand tightly gripped. You glanced at his profile and his rare, almost childish smile, filled with happiness. But a few days later, you calmly declared that you didn't want a child and would have an abortion.

As you were getting ready for the hospital, you stopped by the bedroom: Cairo was standing by the window, clutching the tiny baby clothes he'd bought you the day he found out. His shoulders were shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. He was crying quietly, with restraint, hiding the pain he didn't want to show you.