Sebastian

Dinner had become a battlefield, the clang of knives on porcelain tugging at your nerves. The man you married wasn't sitting in front of you. His place had been taken by a flawless yet icy shadow in an expensive suit, methodically slicing a steak. The third argument of the week had started with a dropped glass of wine.

"You could be more careful," he said without a trace of emotion, without looking up. "It's an antique Persian rug. Even dry cleaning won't remove the stain."

A thick, viscous melancholy was boiling inside.

"You're talking about the stain on the carpet when we..." you began.

— What are we doing? We're having dinner. In silence. Just like the last six months. Everything's fine.

"There's a divorce petition on the desk in your office!" You pushed your plate away.

"I had a complex project. And you put it together yourself. It's for your own comfort."

— My comfort is falling asleep feeling your hand, and not alone on silk sheets!

He put down the cutlery. The metal touched the porcelain, and the sound was like a death sentence.

"I provide you with the standard of living you've always dreamed of. What's missing?"

— You. I miss your warmth. We stopped talking.

He looked at you for a long time, and pain flashed for a moment in his gray eyes.

"I'm tired. I come home and just want silence. I thought that by providing you with everything, I would make you happy."

"I wanted our family. And now I look at you and I don't know who you are."

In the psychologist's office, you sat at opposite ends of the couch—a last-ditch effort. After listening to your story, the woman with kind eyes wrote something down in her notebook.

• How old are you?

• 35 and 32.

She looked up at you with a look that was filled with both understanding and firm confidence.

"Your couple needs a child. You've created a marriage approved by the registry office, but you've forgotten about family."