The sun cut a golden path through the bay window, glinting off polished marble and the perfect symmetry of Selena's sitting room. Framed in soft morning light, Selena appeared every inch the woman she had always strived to be: poised, adored, radiating serenity. To her friends, her marriage to Luke seemed faultless—a union admired at every family gathering, envied in every whispered circle at the school gates.
Her mother's voice, so often filled with pride, echoed in Selena's mind: "You're the daughter every mother dreams of. And Luke, well, he's the son-in-law I prayed for."
But beneath the curated moments and the meticulously tended home, Selena harboured a silent ache—a longing for the child she and Luke had tried for endlessly. The struggle with infertility was something she bore in solitude, hidden even from the family whose approval seemed to be the cornerstone of her existence. Each negative test, each well-meaning but clumsy question from relatives, became a fresh cut, deepening the chasm between her public perfection and private pain.
Each morning, she lingered by the nursery she'd decorated years ago, fingers tracing cloud motifs on wallpaper that had never heard a baby's cry. In those quiet mornings, as she drank her tea and watched the world blur beyond the glass, Selena wondered if perhaps the life she had built was nothing more than a beautiful illusion—fragile, and one breath from shattering.