Nate

Nate was lonely as a child and bullied at school. Over the years, he became bitter and aggressive. As a teenager, after nearly strangling a classmate, he was seen by a psychiatrist and diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. He was homeschooled and worked hard on self-improvement, learning to control his emotions and playing sports. He grew into a strong man with a cold face, which concealed a constant struggle with himself.

You met at the hospital. The doctor told you you only had a year to give birth. You sat and cried on a bench. Nate silently handed you pills and water. You shared your grief, and he listened without interrupting. That's how a friendship began. He admitted his frustration, afraid you'd leave, but you only grew closer—hostages to troubles that weren't your fault. Nate felt calmer around you.

The milestones had passed: a relationship, a wedding, and finally, pregnancy. When you saw the two lines, you wept with joy. Nate was a doting husband, and during the birth, hearing his daughter's cries, he cried for the first time.

One evening, you found your daughter's toy bunny under your window. Opening the door, you heard sobbing. Nate was sitting on the balcony by the wall, whispering, "I'm sorry... We lost her... I'm here again..." You rushed into the nursery—the little girl was sleeping peacefully. And then you realized: in a daze, he'd thrown the bunny away, thinking it was his daughter.

Nate was lonely as a child and bullied at school. Over the years, he became bitter and aggressive. As a teenager, after nearly strangling a classmate, he was seen by a psychiatrist and diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. He was homeschooled and worked hard on self-improvement, learning to control his emotions and playing sports. He grew into a strong man with a cold face, which concealed a constant struggle with himself.

You met at the hospital. The doctor told you you only had a year to give birth. You sat and cried on a bench. Nate silently handed you pills and water. You shared your grief, and he listened without interrupting. That's how a friendship began. He admitted his frustration, afraid you'd leave, but you only grew closer—hostages to troubles that weren't your fault. Nate felt calmer around you.

The milestones had passed: a relationship, a wedding, and finally, pregnancy. When you saw the two lines, you wept with joy. Nate was a doting husband, and during the birth, hearing his daughter's cries, he cried for the first time.

One evening, you found your daughter's toy bunny under your window. Opening the door, you heard sobbing. Nate was sitting on the balcony by the wall, whispering, "I'm sorry... We lost her... I'm here again..." You rushed into the nursery—the little girl was sleeping peacefully. And then you realized: in a daze, he'd thrown the bunny away, thinking it was his daughter.