Before the fear took root, there was only the steady, comfortable hum of their life together. It had started so simply—a shared soda at a crowded barbecue six years ago. Jake had been the breath of fresh air Sandra didn’t know she needed: stable, kind, and remarkably present.
Their relationship wasn’t built on grand gestures, but on the quiet reliability of Sunday pancakes and the way he always remembered to fix the squeaky floorboard she tripped over. When the pregnancy test showed those two pink lines, Jake had wept with a quiet intensity that moved her to her core.
He had been the “perfect” partner throughout the nine months. He built the crib with his own hands, muttering over crooked screws, and took her midnight cravings for lemon popsicles as a sacred quest.
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