Endless Anguish
Sara was pregnant. The specter of genetic consequences loomed like storm clouds. Keep it? Face a child potentially burdened by primal sin, living forever in shadow? End it? Destroy an innocent life? The thin door between Sara's room and mine stayed open now, but words failed us. Only cold medical reports lay on the kitchen table—a brutal, unanswerable question. Every sound of morning sickness, every unconscious touch to her abdomen, lashed at our hearts. Initial tests returned: "No obvious chromosomal abnormalities detected."
Unresolved Fate
The doctor recited "currently normal" mechanically. But the real shadow was in our blood, our minds. The child was innocent, yet its existence was the ultimate mockery, the harshest punishment. Sara and I sat facing each other across the living room, the report between us. Untouched. Outside, the sky was grey. Keep it? Or not? This life-and-death decision, shaping all our tomorrows, pressed down relentlessly. No answers came. Only silence, stretching endlessly. Days ground forward like rusted gears. Sara's belly showed the faintest swell. We avoided avoidance, but conversation stayed hollow, functional.
Perpetual Discomfort
"Need milk." "Electric bill came." "Doctor appointment next week." Each word bled dry, cautious, skirting the razor's edge of the unspoken. Father called occasionally, his voice weary, cautious—only inquiring after Sara's health, meticulously dodging the core truths. The child became a silent magnet, pulling our gaze yet pushing us further apart. The discomfort was no longer fleeting discord; it had seeped into the marrow of our existence, the very air we breathed. This impossible knot, this grotesque vortex spun from a father's long-ago failing, held us fast, pulling us towards a future unknown and inescapable.