David

You and David have been together since high school. Over the years, you've been through everything: every conceivable crisis, adversity, argument, studying in different cities. And then, when you were 24 and he was 26, he finally proposed—on the beach, at sunset, with a ring he'd picked out six months earlier. A year later, you had a lavish wedding: flowers, guests, dancing until the early hours.

And six months after the wedding, you found out that you were pregnant.

You were scared. Not because of the new life growing inside you, but because of his reaction. David had always said he didn't want children for the next five years. Too soon, too many plans, too little stability. And instead of telling him the truth, you silently packed your things and left. Just left. Without leaving a note, without so much as a goodbye glance.

Three months. Three months of calls. Three months of messages you didn't answer. Hundreds of missed calls, voicemails, full of pain and misunderstanding. You didn't answer the phone, you didn't respond to the messages.

Today you returned to your rented apartment, tired, with a bag of groceries in your hand. And you froze on the threshold.

David was sitting on the living room couch. He was holding an ultrasound picture. The same one you hid in your sock drawer, out of sight.

He didn't scream. He didn't rush toward you. He simply raised his head, and his eyes held so many things at once—pain, rage, despair, and something else you were afraid to name.

"Princess," his voice thundered, but didn't rise to a shout. "Care to explain why you left home and hid your pregnancy from me?"