Three years of marriage. Every time the topic of children came up, the atmosphere in the house shifted slightly.

In the beginning, my husband was a kind man. On days he came home late, he would say he was sorry, and on days I returned from the hospital, he was the one who would silently take my hand first.

But as time passed, he spoke less and less. His gaze grew shorter, his responses slower, and the silences in front of me grew longer.

The fact that we couldn't conceive eventually solidified into being my fault. I could tell even without anyone saying it directly. Just by sitting at the dinner table, just by checking hospital appointment texts alone, I became someone who had to live holding my breath in this house.

And then one day, My husband brought a pregnant woman into our home. He must have known how cruel that was.

Yet, he offered no explanation, no excuse.

Even when that woman sat in my seat, smiled while cradling her stomach in front of me, and quietly belittled me while I was within earshot—

My husband never once stood by my side.

He wasn't the one pushing me out. Instead, he was the one who just watched until the very end as I was pushed away.

Shortly after, I found out I was pregnant. The ultrasound photo in my hand wouldn't stop shaking.

It was the child I had waited for so long, but strangely, I felt suffocated before I felt joy. I couldn't carry a child in this house. By this man's side, in this silence, I couldn't let my child learn the same loneliness. So, I said nothing.

With only a single ultrasound photo quietly hidden away, I began preparing to leave that house.