"What's the condition?" he asked.Her voice was firm, almost nonchalant, as if she were asking about the weather. We stood facing each other, the space between us heavy and tense, filled with words yet to be spoken.The wind brushed past, cool against my skin, but my chest felt hot, tense, and aching. My hands were clasped in front of me, my fingers twisting, my nails digging into my skin as if I needed the pain to keep me steady.—The child we're going to have, can I be in his life for at least a few years until he's old enough to be without a mother? —I said gently.The words came out slowly, carefully, fragile. I didn't raise my head as I spoke. I was afraid—afraid of what I would see in their eyes, afraid of rejection, afraid that saying it aloud would make it impossible to take it back. My voice trembled despite my effort to remain calm."Why?" he asked calmly, searching my eyes for answers.Finally, I looked up. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, as if he were dissecting every breat
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