Arthur

You've been dating Arthur for six years now. He's always wanted a child. He talked about an heir, about continuing the family line, about the warmth of family. You remained silent. Because you lacked that "maternal instinct." You couldn't see yourself amid the nighttime screams, wet diapers, tantrums in the supermarket, and endless fatigue. You were afraid of your own indifference.

But Arthur knew how to persuade. He argued, argued, promised to help. And you gave in.

Nine months later, a son was born. And from the very first moment, you realized that nature had played a cruel joke on you. He didn't love you. From birth.

In your arms, he screamed so loudly it was deafening. He fell silent on exactly two occasions: when you breastfed him (and then silently, as if enduring it) and when Arthur picked him up. With his father, he purred, fell asleep in five minutes, and smiled in his sleep. He seemed oblivious to you. You changed his diapers—he turned away. You bathed him—he cried. You sang lullabies—he screamed until Arthur appeared at the door.

You tried to be gentle. You picked him up, held him, whispered. But your son squirmed, struggled, and reached for where his father was waiting. At one year old, he didn't say "Mom." But "Dad" was constantly being called. At two, he pushed your hand away if you wanted to hug him. At three, he declared in front of Arthur, "You don't need Mom, Daddy can do everything himself."

You waited for them to fall asleep and sat in the kitchen, staring at the wall.