Scream4mami

You were carrying a stack of folders as you tried to balance them against your chest while pushing the office door open with your shoulder. The door suddenly opened from the other side and the folders wobbled. A pair of hands reached out just in time, steadying the pile before it could collapse to the floor.

“Whoa,” a warm voice said, lightly amused. “Careful there.”

You raised your eyes towards your interlocutor and saw him. That was the first time you saw Steve Harrington. 

He was taller than you. Broad-shouldered, with soft brown eyes similar to chocolate and an expression that mixed concern and easy confidence in a way that felt oddly disarming. His hand still rested against the top folder, as if he was making sure you truly had it under control before letting go. 

“Thanks,” you murmured, adjusting your grip.

“No problem,” he replied. Then, after a small pause, “Hey. You’re new.”

You nodded quickly, smiling and said your name. “I started yesterday. I’m the new secretary,” you said timidly as if you were confessing something dirty, guilty. 

His eyes flickered with recognition, like a puzzle piece had just clicked into place. “Oh. So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.” He smiled, crooked and genuine. “I’m Steve. Steve Harrington. Baseball coach and sex education teacher.”

You blinked and looked at him confused. “Everyone?”

“Small town,” he shrugged lightly. “New face. Big news.”

That was how it started.

At first, he was just a presence you saw in the hallways. A casual greeting in the morning. A quick conversation along the school corridors. A familiar figure leaning against lockers or kneeling beside children with untied shoelaces and scraped knees. Just a name mentioned by teachers and others colleagues. You noticed how the kids gravitated toward him instinctively, how he spoke to them at eye level, never dismissive, never rushed. He was patient, careful. And you couldn’t deny that it was fascinating to see a man interact with them like that.  

You were staying late to organize paperwork, the office quiet and dim except for the soft hum of the overhead lights, when you heard a gentle knock against the doorframe.

Steve stood there, arms crossed loosely, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re still here,” he said.

“So are you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Fair point.”

There was a brief silence, comfortable rather than awkward, before he stepped inside and reached for a stack of folders without asking.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “But I want to.”

From that evening on, it became a habit. And then, before you could really realize it, you became friends really quick. He began to be everywhere. He waited for you in the mornings in the school parking lot, next to his car, just to have the chance to say ‘hello’ before you started your day. He walked you out after work. Sometimes, when he didn’t have practice, he gave you a ride home. He stopped by the office between classes just to talk, leaning casually against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world when in reality he was already late. He had lunch with you talking about the most random things that somehow always made you laugh.

Soon after, he also started picking you up before work. 

At first, you protested. “You really don’t have to drive me every day, Steve.”

“It’s on my way.”

“It’s not,” you said back. 

He grinned. “It is now.”

And somehow, after a few days, you found yourself listening for the sound of his car in the morning without even realizing it.

With him, Hawkins began to feel smaller. Less intimidating. Warmer. He showed you shortcuts through town, pointed out the best diner for late-night pie, the quiet park where no one went in the evenings, the video store where he had worked with his friend Robin. He introduced you to her one afternoon, and she eyed you curiously for exactly three seconds before launching into rapid-fire sarcasm that made you laugh despite yourself. Then came Dustin, Eddie, and the rest of that chaotic, strange group that revolved around him like an unconventional but loyal, lovely family. Before long, they became your friends too and you stopped feeling like a stranger. 

And soon Steve became something more than just a friend or a colleague, even if neither of you wanted to say it out loud. He was kind in a quiet, unshowy way. Protective without suffocating. Funny without trying too hard. You adored the way he cared for the children at school — tying shoelaces, wiping tears, listening to their stories as if each one truly mattered. It came so naturally to him as if he had always been meant to be around kids. Like he was already practicing for something bigger.

Some afternoons, you stayed after school and sat on the bleachers during baseball practice, your elbows resting on your knees and a book open in your lap that you rarely read. Your eyes drifted back to him again and again — the way he encouraged the kids, the way he clapped his hands and cheered when someone managed to hit the ball, the way he crouched down to reassure the shy ones. Sometimes his eyes met yours, other times you found him already looking at you.

It didn’t take long before he started flirting. Softly at first. Playfully. Like he wasn’t sure how far he could push. It started with simple things. A teasing comment about how you looked. A lingering glance a second too long.

You ignored them at first.  You had heard the whispers about Steve Harrington. The former heartbreaker. The popular boy. The one with a reputation. And part of you assumed that the charm, the softness, the little compliments, they were simply part of his nature. That he flirted with every girl and that it probably meant nothing.

And you refused to be just another name on his list or to lose his friendship. It meant too much. 

So every time  you laughed it off and changed the subject. But it was hard to ignore the way he looked at you. The way he made you feel beautiful without even saying the word. The way he listened when you talked. He made you feel safe without trying too much and seen in a way no one had ever bothered to before.

And while every woman in town was making eyes at him, Steve seemed to have eyes only for you. 

Sometimes, during baseball practice, you overheard mothers or older sisters whispering in the stands.

“How is Steve Harrington still single?”

“He’s so handsome.”

“I would absolutely take my chance if I wasn’t already married.”

And every single time, something inside your chest tightened. Jealousy.

The winter school dance became the turning point.

You and Steve had both volunteered as supervisors, walking slowly across the decorated gymnasium while children laughed under cheap string lights and paper snowflakes taped unevenly to the walls. Soft music played in the background, nostalgic and unexpectedly romantic for a room full of kids.

You were adjusting a crooked decoration when a shadow fell in front of you. The air around you suddenly shifted and you knew it was him even before you turned around. 

Steve stood there, one hand slightly extended, his other shoved awkwardly into his pocket. His usual confidence seemed softened by something almost… nervous.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “Steve, we’re supposed to supervise.”

“We are supervising,” he replied, glancing around. “From the dance floor.”

You huffed a quiet laugh despite yourself, but your hand remained at your side.

He didn’t move it closer or insist. He waited, patiently. 

You were grateful for the music because your heart was pounding so loud that you were afraid that Steve could hear it.

This is just Steve, you told yourself. He flirts. He jokes. That’s who he is.

But the way he was looking at you now didn’t feel like a joke. It felt serious as if it wasn’t just an invitation to dance but something more. Like the beginning of something. 

Were you ready? 

Slowly, hesitantly, you placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours gently, almost reverently, as if he understood that this small gesture meant more than a simple dance.

From that moment on, you never truly let go of his hand, you kept dancing and everything moved faster than you had ever expected.

You eventually said yes. 

Yes to the first real date.

Yes to the second.

Yes to the life that slowly began forming around the two of you.

It felt less like a beginning and more like the continuation of something that had already been growing between you for months.

A few months later, you moved in together.

A year after that, on a quiet evening filled with nervous laughter and shining eyes, Steve Harrington got down on one knee, his hands trembling just slightly as he looked up at you.

And you said yes again.

And soon after, you became — officially, irrevocably, and happily — Mrs. Harrington.

The name still felt new, unfamiliar on your tongue.

You and Steve had managed to buy a house in Forest Hills — the one that had been Steve’s dream long before it ever became yours. He had shown it to you during one of your very first dates, back when everything between you was still new. You still remembered the way he had parked the car across the street, almost sheepish, fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel before glancing at you. “Don’t get scared. I know it’s a little early to be showing you this,” he had said, clearing his throat. “But… I’ve been saving for it. For months.”

From the outside, the house was bigger than anything you had expected. A wide porch, tall windows that caught the sunlight, and a front garden that had clearly been left a little too wild but still beautiful in its own way. It wasn’t perfect. Some parts needed repainting, the fence leaned slightly, and the lawn wasn’t as neat as it could have been. But it was beautiful in a way that felt lived-in already, as if it was simply waiting. 

You had fallen in love with it before even stepping inside.

Steve had walked ahead of you with boyish excitement, pushing the front door open and turning back to look at you as if your reaction mattered more than anything else.

“Three bedrooms,” he had said, gesturing toward the hallway. “Big kitchen. Two bathrooms. And of course the garden.”

His voice had softened then, almost unconsciously. “I always thought… maybe after I get married. Move here. Fill it up.”

You had paused in the middle of the living room, sunlight pooling at your feet, dust motes floating lazily in the air.

“Fill it up with what?” you had asked, even though you already knew the answer.

He had smiled, that crooked, hopeful smile that always made your chest tighten. “Kids. A lot of them.” A quiet laugh. “This one’s gonna be chaos one day.”

Any other girl would have thought it was too soon to talk about that kind of stuff. Another girl might have been scared by that kind of certainty so early on. But you hadn’t been. Because even then, even when you refused to admit it out loud — especially to him — you were already falling in love with Steve. As you walked along those walls, you were already picturing yourself in that house with him. His dream was already yours. 

Years later, when you finally crossed that same threshold as his wife, the feeling hadn’t changed. If anything, it had only deepened.

The house was bigger than the apartment you had once shared. Fuller of light. The kitchen was wide and sunlit in the mornings, the kind of place where Steve leaned against the counter with a mug in hand and messy hair, talking about his day before it had even begun. The living room still needed a few finishing touches, and some of the walls had been repainted together on long weekends filled with laughter and paint-stained clothes. One of the three bedroom quickly became yours. Clothes, books, scattered sketches, and the quiet comfort of shared routines. The second was immediately claimed as a guest room, mostly because Dustin and the others had the habit of showing up very often and staying longer than planned, filling the house with noise, jokes, and the familiar chaos that followed Steve everywhere. The third room remained empty for now even though you had both already decided what it would become. 

It was going to be your child’s room. When, not if.

Because there had never been any doubt that you and Steve would have children. The only real discussion between you had been the number of kids you wanted.

“I want six,” he had confessed one afternoon, back when you were just friends, completely serious as he leaned back in his chair. “Six little nuggets. Minimum.”

You had laughed so hard you nearly choked on your drink.

“Six? Steve, that’s an entire basketball team.”

“I’m serious,” he had insisted, smiling but unwavering. “Big house. Loud. Messy. Full of life.”

You had rolled your eyes back then, teasing him, calling him dramatic and insisting that six was excessive even for someone who adored children as much as he did.

“Poor wife,” you had said and at those words Steve had looked at you. 

Now that you were finally married it was only a matter of time before that empty room would be painted in soft colors, filled with toys, laughter, and tiny footsteps echoing through the hallway. Or at least… that was what you had believed when you had decided to try for a baby. 

But months passed and nothing happened.

At first, it had been easy. Exciting. Almost playful. You and Steve had always had a very active sex life, and after deciding to try for a baby, your libido had only increased. Every free moment turned into stolen kisses, touches and laughter echoing through the halls of your new home. You inaugurated every corner of the house like it was part of some private ritual. Steve would pull you into his arms in the kitchen, grin against your lips, and murmur, “Practice,” as if the word itself was a joke only the two of you shared. Nights dissolved into tangled sheets, soft moans, and whispered conversations in the dark. Mornings began with lazy kisses and hopeful glances that neither of you addressed directly. Every delayed cycle gave you a flicker of excitement, making you optimistic and believe you were pregnant Then, negative tests began to pile up in the trash can one after another, each one heavier than the last. Each one stealing a little more of your patience and hope. 

Steve never pressured or questioned you. He remained blissfully positive and loved you the same way he always had. He remained patient and kept repeating that it was only a matter of time before it happened. 

But a whisper of doubt settled into your thoughts, soft at first, then persistent. You kept wondering if you were doing something wrong or what you were missing.

So you made an appointment with a specialist without telling Steve. You didn’t want to worry him yet. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe, as he had said, you just needed a little more time. 

Then, a few days before the appointment, you started to feel nauseous in the morning and to vomit. And your cycle… was late. You noticed it in silence, standing in the kitchen one morning with the calendar open on the counter and your heart beating faster than it had in months.

It felt like a sign. A quiet, almost sacred certainty settled in your chest. The timing felt too precise to be just a coincidence or a mistake. As if fate itself had intervened just before the appointment, as if the universe had decided to spare you the worry and give you the answer you had been praying for. So you didn’t take a test and decided to wait. You wanted to hear it from a doctor. From someone who could look at you, confirm it and make it real. Official. In the days that separated you from the visit you started to smile more around Steve. You let his arms linger around your waist a little longer. Watched him move around the house with that easy warmth, completely unaware that you were already fantasizing how you would tell him the happy news. 

When the day of the visit finally arrived, you sat in the doctor’s office with your hands folded tightly in your lap, thumb rubbing absent circles against your knuckles as the doctor reviewed your results. The place smelled faintly of disinfectant and the lights were too bright, almost blinding. 

When the doctor finally spoke, his voice was calm. 

“You’re not pregnant.”

You froze, your breath caught in your throat. Then you swallowed, nodding slowly, already preparing yourself to accept it like all the other disappointments before. 

Of course you were disappointed but it wasn’t news to you. You reminded yourself that that was the main reason you had gone to see a specialist. To understand better what was happening. To find a solution. 

You were about to say something, to ask him what should be done now but the doctor beat you to it. 

“There is something else we need to discuss, Mrs. Harrington.”

Your fingers tightened in your lap.

The room suddenly felt colder. Smaller. The faint ticking of a clock somewhere behind you became unbearably loud.

He folded his hands on the desk, his expression careful, almost apologetic. Why? What was he apologizing for?, you thought. 

“Based on your tests…” he paused, choosing his words with precision, “…it is very unlikely that you will be able to conceive.” For a moment, you didn’t fully understand. Silence filled the room so completely that you could have sworn you heard something crack inside your chest. Your mind struggled to register the rest. Medical explanations blurred together into indistinct sounds. Percentages. Options. Terms that felt distant and unreal, as if they were being spoken to someone else entirely. But all you could hear was one truth echoing over and over again.

You would never become a mother.

And that meant that Steve would never become a father. 

The image of him flashed in your mind instantly. The way he talked about kids. The way his voice softened around them. The way he dreamed aloud about a full house, laughter, chaos, love.

Six little nuggets.

In the span of a few minutes, you had gone from “I might be carrying a child with the man I love” to “I may never be able to give him one”.

The doctor hadn’t just taken something from you. He had taken the future Steve had been dreaming of long before you ever entered his life. The future that once had seemed so certain to you, now it wasn’t anymore. 

It felt more like the end of beginning. -

For a long moment, you didn’t move.

Your hands remained locked around the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the worn leather, your breath shallow and uneven as the doctor’s words replayed inside your head over and over again with cruel precision, as if they had carved themselves into your mind.

Not pregnant.

And likely… unable to conceive naturally.

You stared at the house in front of you — your house — and felt something inside you shift in a way you couldn’t yet name.

How were you supposed to walk inside and tell the man you loved that his biggest dream —six little nuggets, a house full of laughter, children running through the halls— might never happen? That the future you had both spoken about in half-jokes and late-night whispers had suddenly become uncertain because of you. Because your body might not be able to do the one thing you had always assumed it would. And apparently there was nothing you could do to fix it. 

You were feeling helpless. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your forehead briefly against the steering wheel as a tear slipped free. You wiped it away before it could fall any further, inhaled slowly, deeply, and forced your face into something resembling calm.

When you opened the front door, the smell reached you first — tomatoes simmering with garlic and onion — followed by the low hum of a radio playing softly from the kitchen and the clink of a spoon against a pan.

You walked toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

Steve stood at the stove in an old Hawkins High T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, stirring a saucepan with focused care. A large pot of pasta boiled beside him, steam curling toward the ceiling. On the counter sat a bowl of chopped parsley, grated parmesan in a small dish, and a loaf of sliced Italian bread wrapped in a clean kitchen towel to keep it warm. He was doing his famous spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and garlic bread brushed with butter and herbs. Your favorite meal. Unpretentious, simple but good. 

The table had already been set — two plates aligned neatly, cloth napkins folded beside the forks, candles unlit but ready. In the center sat a small bouquet of daisies in a glass jar, slightly crooked but bright. His shoulders were relaxed, completely unaware that your world had tilted on its axis just an hour before.

You stayed there for a second longer than necessary, enjoying the moment and watching him, memorizing the simple scene as if it were something you might lose the second you opened your mouth.

Steve turned suddenly, startled by your presence and then his face softened into that familiar smile that you loved—the one that had undone you years ago when you first met.

“Hey,” he said warmly. “Perfect timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

He crossed the room without hesitation and cupped your face gently before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You forced yourself to kiss him back. But when he pulled away, his eyes searched your face, lingering on it a second longer than usual. 

He knew your moods. Your silences. The subtle shifts in your expression. He knew you too well to know when there was something bothering you. 

“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing his thumb lightly along your cheekbone.

The truth rushed up your throat, sharp and suffocating.

You swallowed it down and nodded instead, smiling. “Just a little tired,” you said, your voice quieter than usual. “I’ll go wash my hands so we can eat.”

His brows knit for half a second, but he still nodded. “Okay. I’ll plate everything.”

Dinner tasted like nothing. Your stomach was tight, your chest heavier with every passing minute, yet you forced yourself to eat, nodding at the right moments, smiling when Steve told you about his day. About his lesson. About practice. About how the kids had improved with their throws. His eyes lit up as he spoke, animated and proud, hands gesturing as he talked between bites. He was so proud of his students. His kids. Normally you loved listening to him talking about them but now every word about it felt like a needle pressing deeper into your chest, reminding you how he would be such a good father. He already carried that instinct in him. He was patient, sweet and encouraging. Kids, his students, everyone loved him.

When he finally asked about your day, your grip on your fork tightened. You didn’t know what to do or to say. Part of you knew that that was the perfect occasion to tell tell him the truth. Right there. At the table. With the music still playing and the flowers still fresh and his hand resting near yours. And you didn’t want to lie to him. You never had and just the idea of it sat wrong on your tongue. But you also knew that once you told the truth, there was no going back. Everything — your life, your relationship — would change irreparably. Forever. 

You looked at him. At the man who had built a life with you. Who had already filled a third bedroom with plans instead of furniture. Who talked about future children like they were already there with you.

You weren’t ready to take his dream away from him yet, even though you were already living your worst nightmare. So you pushed the words back down once again. 

“Normal,” you simply said, taking his hand as if that alone could anchor you. “A bit boring. A lot of documents and calls.”

It was a half-truth but you still hated it. 

Later, after the dishes were washed and the radio had gone quiet, you told him you were going upstairs.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he said, drying his hands on a towel.

You climbed the steps slowly.

Halfway down the hallway, you stopped. The door to the third bedroom was slightly ajar. You hadn’t meant to look inside, but you still did. 

You stepped into the doorway, your fingers brushing lightly against the frame. The room was empty except for few cardboard boxes in the corner that you hadn’t opened yet, while the window was letting in the soft blue of evening. You remembered standing there months ago with Steve, both of you imagining out loud where a crib might go. Where a rocking chair would fit. Laughing about how you’d probably argue over paint colors. At that time you had been full of hope, believing it would happen at any moment. 

You've never been so wrong, you thought. 

Now, when you looked around the room, it felt different. Not empty in a hopeful way. Just empty.

You stared at the walls and, for the first time since leaving the doctor’s office, you allowed the weight of his words to settle fully in your chest. 

Maybe this room — the one that had once felt full of possibility — would never change.

Maybe it would stay exactly as it was — quiet, untouched. 

Your vision started blurring. Footsteps creaked softly on the stairs behind you, and you quickly wiped at your eyes, forcing your breathing to steady before Steve could reach you.

-

In the days that followed, you treated the diagnosis the way one treated grief.

You denied it.

The more you replayed the appointment in your mind, the more it didn’t make sense. The doctor must have been mistaken. Maybe the tests were wrong. You were young and healthy. You didn’t smoke and had even stopped drinking to improve your chances. You and Steve were happy and deeply in love. There was no logical reason for your body to fail you.

That was the conclusion you clung to.

So you buried yourself in research withdrawing books from the library and buying every guide you could find. While Steve slept, you read late into the night about ovulation cycles, timing, positioning — anything, everything that could help you. You asked discreet questions to friends and colleagues who already had children, scribbling mental notes and trying every suggestion one after the other. You tracked cycles, symptoms, dates and every single, even the smallest, change in your body that could indicate you were pregnant. 

You convinced yourself that if you tried hard enough, it would happen. That the diagnosis was just a mistake waiting to be disproven. 

Every month that passed without a result felt like a personal failure. Every time your cycle returned, it felt like confirmation of the doctor’s words. You would lock yourself in the bathroom for a few minutes longer than necessary, staring at the sink, steadying your breathing before facing him again.

Every private moment with Steve became an opportunity to conceive. What had once been spontaneous, passionate, full of laughter and love slowly turned into something else—something more urgent, more calculated. It wasn’t about pleasure or intimacy anymore, it had begun to feel more like a task, something necessary. You sought him out with a kind of urgency that surprised even you. In the kitchen while dinner simmered. In the living room with the television still murmuring in the background. In the bedroom in the middle of a Sunday afternoon when sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains. You pulled him close without preamble, without the slow build you once loved. Even at school, behind the locked door of an empty classroom during a long break, or later in the quiet of the locker room after practice, when the building had mostly emptied and the halls had fallen silent. 

At first, Steve responded with the same warmth he always had. He laughed when you surprised him and wrapped his arms around you instinctively, kissing you back without question. But there were moments when he hesitated and confusion crossed his face. 

One evening, when Steve returned home, you were already waiting for him in the foyer. The soft blue babydoll barely skimmed your thighs, the delicate fabric almost translucent in the warm light of the hallway. Lace traced the neckline, falling open just enough to leave very little to the imagination. You had brushed your hair, put on just enough makeup to look effortless, and waited.

When the door finally opened and Steve stepped inside, the cool air from outside still clinging to him, you didn’t give him time to do anything more than shut it behind him. You crossed the space between you in two quick steps and kissed him. Hard. Your hands were already on him — sliding up his chest, fingers moving to the buttons of his shirt, working them open before he could even set his bag down. He froze for half a second before kissing you back and dropping the bag. Then his hands came to your waist automatically, pulling you closer. 

“Hey —” 

You barely heard him. Your lips moved along his jaw, down to his neck, your fingers slipping under the fabric of his shirt as you tried to pull it from his shoulders.

He caught your wrists gently and you looked up at him, breath slightly uneven, confusion flickering across your face.

“Hey,” he repeated softly. “Slow down.”

You forced a small smile, tilting your head as if the request amused you and didn’t say anything. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t move to meet them this time. His hands tightened slightly around your wrists, trying to stop you. His eyes searched your face. 

“Baby, I just got home,” he said gently.

“That never really stopped you.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be? I just need you, Steve.” Your voice softened, almost pleading now. 

You slipped one hand free and kissed him again, deeper this time, your fingers sliding down his chest toward the waistband of his jeans.

He exhaled sharply and stepped back just enough to stop you. “Okay,” he murmured, voice still calm but firmer now. “Hold on.”

Your brows furrowed. “What’s going on?” you asked.

His hands moved to your shoulders this time, steadying you.  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Your expression hardened slightly. “What does that mean?”

Steve exhaled quietly, his gaze flicked down for a second — the outfit, the way you were practically pressed against him — before returning to your face. “You didn’t even let me take my jacket off.” 

A humorless laugh escaped you.

He sighed. “Don’t get me wrong.” He hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care. “You look incredible. And I love coming home to you like this. Believe me, I’m trying very hard not to just throw you over my shoulder right now and take you upstairs.” A small, almost apologetic smile crossed his face before it faded. “But I think something is going on. And I don’t know what it is. 

Your spine stiffened and you stepped away from him, putting distance between you. 

“Lately you’ve been… I don’t know… different.”

“Different how?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively. 

He tilted his head slightly. “Sometimes you seem miles away. Tense. And then suddenly the opposite, and you’re…” He gestured vaguely toward you. “…all over me.”

You jaw tightened. “And that’s a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind before.” You said, irritation creeping into your tone.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” he replied immediately. 

You turned away from him, walking a few steps into the living room. Your bare feet crossed the rug as you stopped near the couch, arms folding loosely across your stomach. For a moment you simply stood there, staring at nothing, your back to him. You wished you had a glass of wine in your hand.

“We’re trying for a baby, Steve,” you said, sharper than you intended. “Or did you forget?”

The moment the words left your mouth, regret hit instantly and silence fell between you. You exhaled slowly, gaze dropping to the floor. 

Behind you, Steve sighed. He stepped closer, slower, as if approaching something fragile, not sure if getting closer was the right or wrong thing to do. 

“I didn’t forget,” he said quietly. “Of course I didn’t. Not for a second. It’s just that lately it feels like that is all we do…”

You felt him before you saw him. His hands slid gently along your arms — slow, careful — until they reached your fingers. Your shoulders dropped a little. You turned around but kept your gaze down, unable to meet his eyes.

“But this…” he gestured vaguely between you, “this doesn’t feel like us.”

You crossed your arms, your nails dug into your palms.

“I’m fine,” you insisted. Your voice trembled despite your effort to steady it.

He sighed, and the sound alone nearly broke you, making you feel terrible guilty. You briefly looked at him. Up close, the tiredness on his face was impossible to miss. Was he tired of you?

Your gaze returned to the floor and you closed your eyes. 

After a moment you felt his arms wrapping around you, pulling you against his chest. You stiffened for a moment and then slowly melted into him.

“Hey,” he whispered against your hair, pressing a slow kiss to the top of your head. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you muttered, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“That’s not true.”

You shook your head, clinging to the only defense you had left.

“I’m just tired,” you said. “And frustrated.”

Another silence. 

Then his hand came up to cup your cheek, gently forcing you to look at him. His expression was soft. Loving. Concerned. Completely unaware of the storm inside you. 

“I know how much having a baby means to you and I know that it’s not happening as fast as you hoped,” he said quietly. 

Your vision blurred. “To us,” you corrected in a whisper. “How much it means to us.” 

He nodded immediately. “To us.”

His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“But it’s not something we can force or control,” he continued gently. 

Your breath hitched.

“And there is nothing wrong with you,” he added softly. “Okay? Sometimes these things just take time. When it’s the right moment, it’ll happen. We just have to be patient.”

The world tilted, his words struck deeper than he could possibly know. He was being kind. Patient. Careful. And unknowingly pressing his fingers directly into the deepest, most hidden wound inside your chest.

You let out a broken sound before you could stop it, your face collapsing against his shoulder as the tears finally spilled over.

Steve’s arms tightened around you immediately.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, alarmed now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

If only he knew that his reassurance felt like a knife wrapped in velvet.

That you weren’t okay. 

That there was actually something wrong with you.

You clutched the fabric of his shirt, crying as he held you, his hand moving up and down your back in slow, soothing motions.

“Listen to me,” he whispered. “Even if it takes time, it doesn’t change anything. Not us. Not our life. And for sure not how much I love you.”

Your heart shattered quietly inside your chest. He believed this was simply frustration, that you were hurt by the waiting. Instead you were already mourning something he still believed was only a matter of time.

And still, you said nothing.

You only nodded weakly against him, letting him comfort a pain he didn’t understand entirely, while the truth sat heavy and unspoken on your tongue, growing larger, heavier, and more impossible to confess with every passing day.

-

A few days later, you didn’t need a test to know you weren’t pregnant.

Punctual like clockwork, your cycle had arrived once again. You were alone at home when you saw the blood on the toilet paper, and for a second the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The bathroom light hummed faintly above you as the realization hit all at once. A scream tore out of your throat before you could stop it. It echoed against the bathroom tiles, sharp and raw, your hands gripping the edge of the sink as your vision blurred with tears. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, breaths uneven, desperate, as if air itself had suddenly become harder to find.

Another negative. Another silent confirmation of what you were trying so hard not to believe.

“No,” you whispered hoarsely, even if all you wanted to do was scream. “No, no, no…”

In the days that followed, you sought second opinions.

And third.

Then fourth.

You sat in sterile offices again and again, your hands folded tightly in your lap, one leg continuously hitting the floor while specialists reviewed your charts with polite, professional expressions. Each visit began with a fragile thread of hope. The doctors spoke carefully, their voices gentle, sympathetic, measured. But the conclusion never changed. And even though the wording was different, yet the meaning remained the same.

Visit after visit, your hope dissolved piece by piece, replaced first by disappointment, then by anger, and finally by something heavier. Something quieter. Something that settled deep in your chest and refused to move.

Acceptance.

The truth now sat inside you like a stone, growing heavier each day. Meanwhile, the lies you told Steve —small, harmless on the surface—began to pile up between you like bricks in a wall you had never meant to build. You found yourself drifting further away from him, even when you were sitting right beside him on the couch. You smiled when he looked at you, nodded at the right moments when he spoke, laughed when the situation required it. Yet half the time you weren’t really there. Your mind was somewhere else entirely.

Steve noticed. Of course he did. But instead of pulling away or insisting with you, he stayed patient and close to you.  He brought home dinner on nights when you claimed you were too tired to cook. He suggested quiet evenings together, movies on the couch, long walks after dinner. Sometimes he would simply sit beside you and pull you gently against him, his arm wrapping around your shoulders as though proximity alone might make things better. 

And God, you wanted to lean into him, to tell him everything and to let him carry some of the weight crushing your chest. But how could you stay close to him without either lying… or telling him the truth? You didn’t know what to do. Every time the words rose in your throat, they died there. Confessing everything would make it more real and irreversible. 

You weren’t even afraid he would leave you. Steve loved you far too much for that. 

And that was precisely the problem.

What you, in fact, truly feared was that he would stay and give up his dream of a family, of six little nuggets running around the house. He would smile and tell you it didn’t matter, that the two of you would find another way to be happy. Until one day, years later, he would look back at his life and realize what he had sacrificed. He would end up resenting you. Maybe even hating you. 

The idea of seeing that look in Steve’s eyes someday — that quiet realization, that unspoken blame — was something you knew you could never survive.

-

You were sitting on the bleachers during baseball practice, but you weren’t really watching. 

The late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the field, the rhythmic crack of bats and the shouts of children echoing through the air. But that day the sounds felt distant, muffled, as if you were hearing them from underwater. Your gaze was unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the field, your thoughts looping endlessly in the same painful circle you had been trapped in for days. 

You barely noticed the moment one of the boys tripped. His cry cut through the air, snapping you back to reality. You blinked and looked up just in time to see a small boy clutching his elbow, tears already spilling down his cheeks where the skin had scraped against the dirt.

You stood up instinctively, ready to hurry down the bleachers toward him, but Steve was already moving. He crouched in front of the boy and examined the scrape carefully with gentle movements, then blew lightly over the wound as if that small gesture alone could take the sting away. One of his large hands rested gently on the boy’s shoulder while he spoke to him quietly. The child’s sobs slowly quieted under his calm reassurance.

Seeing he had everything under control, you slowly sat back down, your hands resting on your lap as you watched him from afar. Steve glanced over his shoulder and called something to the other kids, instructing them to keep practicing. They obeyed without hesitation, returning to their drills while he guided the injured boy to the side of the field.

You followed the movement with your eyes. He sat the child down on the bench and pulled out a small first-aid kit from the equipment bag. His movements were unhurried, gentle as he cleaned the scrape and placed a bandage over it, speaking quietly the entire time. The boy listened, still sniffling, but clearly comforted.

Behind you, a voice suddenly whispered, warm and amused. “Look at him.”

Another voice followed. “He’s so sweet.” 

You couldn't help but smile.

“He was born to be a father,” the second woman said. 

You pressed your lips together, the smile was gone now. Your fingers curled slightly. You keep listening as the conversation continued just behind your shoulder, unable to ignore it.

“I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t already have kids,” a third voice added lightly, clearly unaware of who was sitting only a few feet away. Then someone — maybe the first woman who had spoken — joked, her tone playful.

“Well, if he wants, I’m available to give them to him. As many as he wants.”

Laughter erupted behind you.

You swallowed the words like when you eat something you don’t really like, forcing them down. Your eyes burned, but you kept them fixed on the field.

Steve had just finished placing the bandage. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candy, handing it to him with a soft smile that instantly erased the last of the child’s tears and made him brighten. Then Steve ruffled his hair before sending him back toward the others.

Despite the pain those women’s words had caused, even though they had been totally insensitive and inappropriate, they weren’t wrong. 

Steve was meant to be a father. It was in his DNA, something he was born for. It was written in everything he did — in the way he crouched to meet a child at eye level, in the patience in his voice, in the quiet instinct he had for comforting them. And children loved him too. They gravitated toward him without hesitation and hung on his every word. 

You were sure that one day he would be an incredible father. The kind who stayed late to help with homework, who read to bedtime stories for the hundredth time without complaint, who made children feel safe simply by being there.

Just… not with you.

The realization settled into your chest with terrifying clarity, heavier than any medical diagnosis. 

Being a father wasn’t just something Steve was meant to be. It was something he wanted. Something that would make him truly, deeply happy in a way nothing else ever could. And you couldn’t be the reason he lost that, the reason he lived the rest of his life with something missing, something he would one day quietly grieve. You loved him too much for that. 

Suddenly your mind was no longer foggy. Now you saw everything more clearly.

The woman’s words echoed in your mind, louder, impossible to ignore. 

“Well, if he wants, I’m available to give them to him. As many as he wants.”

She wasn’t the only one. You were sure that, like her, many other women wished they could be in your place. You had seen it. The way other women looked at him. Their smiles. The way they lingered a little too long after practice, finding excuses to touch him, to be noticed. Mothers, sisters, women who already had families of their own and women who clearly wanted one. You had seen the glances they threw your way, too. Jealous. Curious. As if silently asking how you had been the one he chose. As if wondering how easily it could have been them instead.

And maybe… it could have been.

Maybe it should have been, you thought. Because unlike you, they could give him everything. Children. A family. Everything you couldn’t give him. Your chest tightened painfully. You looked at Steve and his eyes met yours. He was smiling, happy. Oblivious of the storm inside you. He waved at you and you forced a smile, waving back at him. When he turned around, your smile fell down and your vision blurred, the tears threatened to escape, while your mind was racing. Someone else could be for Steve what he needed and what you couldn’t be. A fertile woman. And a mother to his future kids. It was the thing you most wanted to give him and somehow you could still make it possible, even if not directly. Not personally. Even if it meant breaking your heart more than it already was.

Because while you couldn’t have kids, Steve could still be a father. 

That possibility hadn’t been taken from him. Not completely. 

And you could still make sure he had it. 

Even if it meant letting him go.

-

So... PART 2????