My name is Ian, a 33-year-old man, happily married to Jenna. We are anxiously anticipating the birth of our first child.
Our life seemed to follow a predictable and comforting routine—I work in IT, providing a steady income, while Jenna, a gifted freelance photographer, brings creativity into our daily conversations.
Lately, our discussions revolve around baby names, nursery themes, and lighthearted arguments about whether pineapple truly belongs on pizza. It’s an ordinary, fulfilling existence.
One evening, while the snowstorm raged outside, I stood in the kitchen preparing hot chocolate—Jenna’s latest craving ever since she became pregnant.
The low murmur of the heater provided a sense of warmth and contrast to the bitter cold beyond our walls.
Jenna, curled up on the couch, scrolled through her phone absentmindedly, her other hand resting on her growing belly.
“Sweetheart, do you think we should paint the nursery blue or green?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with exhaustion.
“I still say yellow,” I responded, pouring the steaming liquid into mugs.
“It’s gender-neutral, cheerful, and, let’s be honest, it’ll hide baby spit-up pretty well.”
She let out a small laugh. “You and your practical thinking.”
As I reached for the mugs, a sudden, forceful knock at the door shattered the quiet atmosphere. It was unexpected, especially given the harsh weather conditions outside.
Jenna’s gaze flicked to me, concern evident in her expression.
“Ian… who could possibly be out there in this storm?”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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