That evening, I sat in the maternity ward, gazing at the delicate features of my newborn daughter. She looked so fragile, so perfect, as if nothing in the entire world could be more beautiful. Despite the pain of childbirth, I felt a strange lightness, almost as if I were floating. The doctors congratulated me, saying everything had gone well, and tears of joy streamed down my cheeks as I whispered, “Our little girl…”
When Pavel walked in with a bouquet of flowers, I believed that his heart was filled with the same love I felt. He looked at our baby and smiled, but there was something distant in his expression. A flicker of hesitation, a kind of unease in his eyes. I brushed it off, thinking happiness would soon take over for both of us. He kissed my forehead and glanced at the baby again, while my parents beamed and marveled at their granddaughter.
But I noticed it then—the brief moment when he learned the baby was a girl, and his face stiffened. His smile turned hollow. Even though we had known the gender from the ultrasound, I think deep down Pavel had clung to the hope that it had been a mistake. He had insisted time and again, “It’ll be a boy,” even when I laughed and reminded him what the scan showed.
During my hospital stay, he came every day, bringing fruit and flowers, yet he never seemed eager to hold our daughter. While other fathers doted on their newborns, Pavel kept his distance. I told myself he might be shy or afraid of hurting her tiny body, but some inner voice kept whispering that the truth was more complicated.
At the discharge, I stood in the corridor holding our daughter, wrapped in a pink blanket. Pavel took photos, smiled politely, and we drove home with my parents waving us off. On the way, I noticed him staring blankly into the mirror. When I asked if he was alright, he simply muttered something about being tired and overworked.
That was how our new life began—days filled with crying, feeding, diapers, and very little sleep. I didn’t mind the exhaustion. Holding our baby girl, whom we named Lisa, brought me peace. But Pavel seemed to withdraw more each day. He’d leave earlier for work, and when I asked him to hold her, he’d joke dryly, “Better let your mom handle that.”
I wanted to believe that some men just take longer to adjust. But doubt kept growing in my heart. Once, his mother visited and picked Lisa up, encouraging Pavel to come and hold his daughter too. He declined, joking, “Let grandma enjoy her for now.” She gave him a look but didn’t push. I stood there, silently wondering if he even saw Lisa as his own child.
Within that first month, I already sensed something was wrong. I tried to talk to him, but he always deflected. “It’s just stress,” he’d say. “I’m not sleeping well. Work’s a mess.” I convinced myself he needed time, that he would grow into fatherhood. But it felt like a crack had opened between us—and it kept growing.
As the months passed, Lisa began babbling and smiling. Everyone said she was sweet and calm. My mother tried to include Pavel, pointing out the features Lisa had in common with him. But he just brushed it off. Sometimes he snapped, “Why are you all making a big deal? She’s healthy, isn’t she?” The irritation in his voice hurt more than the words.
He started staying later at work. I tried to cook nice dinners, look presentable, do everything right. I thought, maybe if I made things easier for him, he’d open up to his daughter. He once said something about “continuing the bloodline” as if having a boy was all that mattered. I couldn’t believe he held it against me, as if I had any control over it. A child is a gift, no matter the gender.
But I kept seeing the same coldness in his eyes. He never said anything cruel, never raised his voice, but he kept his distance. When I asked him to hold Lisa, he would make excuses and leave the room. Each time, my heart sank. She was his child too, and yet he acted like she didn’t belong to him.
Eventually, he began criticizing everything I did. “Why is the kitchen a mess? Why haven’t you done the dishes?” I wanted to scream, “I’ve been up all night with your child!” But I stayed quiet, afraid that one wrong word would make him walk out the door. I lived in fear, trying not to upset him.
At night, I would cry while rocking Lisa, overwhelmed with guilt. Was I failing as a mother? Was he angry because I couldn’t give him a son? It made no sense, yet I couldn’t stop the thoughts. My mother tried to reassure me, saying a girl is just as valuable. But I could tell this was more than stubbornness—he couldn’t accept her.
One day, I overheard him on the phone, saying, “I can’t connect with this whole daughter thing. A boy would’ve been different. She’s too delicate… I never wanted this.” I stood frozen. How could anyone say that about their child? I hid my tears and realized the truth: our family was falling apart.
The first time Lisa said “da-da,” I rushed to him with joy, thinking he’d be thrilled. He barely glanced up from his phone and mumbled, “Oh yeah?” Lisa looked at him expectantly but received nothing back. She whimpered, and I knew then—he didn’t want her love. He didn’t want her at all.
That night, I lay awake, watching him sleep, wondering what I was doing. Should I keep fighting for a man who didn’t even try to love his own daughter? Maybe it was time to walk away so Lisa wouldn’t grow up surrounded by coldness. But part of me still hoped. Maybe time would heal us.
Then Lisa got sick. A bad fever turned into convulsions, and I rushed her to the hospital in a panic. Pavel followed, pale and silent. For the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes. In the ward, he sat by her side, held her hand, watched the IV being connected. Something shifted. For once, he saw her not as a disappointment but as someone fragile and precious.
As Lisa recovered, Pavel began asking about her health, brought her a small toy, sat with her for short moments. I thought maybe this was the start of something. Slowly, he began to play with her, even took her out in the stroller. I dared to believe we were healing. But then the words returned.
“If she had been a boy, everything would’ve been easier,” he said one day. I tried to make him understand that love for a child shouldn’t depend on gender, but it was clear that idea still lived deep within him. We began to argue more. I told him Lisa was his blood, and he responded, “I know, but it’s not what I dreamed of…”
Later, when Lisa turned one, we started talking about moving. Our apartment was too small. I suggested taking a mortgage, but he seemed indifferent. “Do what you want,” he said. I realized that even though things had improved, the bond between us was still fraying. I couldn’t carry it alone anymore.
Desperate to save what was left, I suggested another child. “Maybe this time a boy?” But he only smirked and said, “And what if it’s another girl? I’m not sure I want to go through this again.” That was it. I broke. “Did you think I’d keep trying forever until you got what you wanted?” He said nothing.
I cried that night, holding Lisa tightly, and I knew then—I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t keep begging for love, not for myself and not for my daughter. She deserved warmth, not a home built on resentment. That’s when I stopped trying. I stopped asking him to hold her, stopped pretending we were okay. I focused on Lisa—her needs, her development, her happiness.
My mother supported me through it. Lisa, bright and cheerful, became my world. One day, she fell and hit her head. I rushed her to the hospital again, and Pavel came running. I saw panic on his face, and when the doctor said she would be fine, he broke down. For a moment, I thought maybe he could love her. But I also knew—too much had been said, too many moments lost.
After that, he became more present. He held her, played with her, smiled at her. Sometimes I saw guilt in his eyes. But I couldn’t forget everything. One evening, as we sat in the kitchen, he apologized. “I’m sorry for all those things I said,” he told me. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or her.”
I stared into my cup. “It’s too late. The wound is already there.” He said he had imagined having a son, and I answered, “You destroyed what we had over that dream.” There was nothing more to say.
Eventually, we agreed to separate. I kept the apartment with help from my mother. Pavel moved out, promised to support Lisa, and asked if he could still see her. I said yes. “It’s your choice—be her father, if you want. But I’m done pretending to be your wife.”
Now, Lisa is almost two. One day, Pavel visited. She ran to him, laughing, calling “da-da,” and he picked her up, clearly moved. I stood back, watching. The photos of us on the wall were gone. I had taken them down. When she fell asleep, we stepped into the hall, and he said, “Thank you for not keeping her from me.” I answered, “She’s not to blame. I just hope you don’t fail her like you failed me.”
He nodded, and I could see the regret in his eyes. But some things can’t be undone. So we went our separate ways. He carried the weight of lost time. I carried the strength of knowing what matters most. Lisa is my world. I won’t let her feel unwanted, not ever.
This wasn’t a fairy tale ending. We didn’t fix everything. But there was no hatred. Just two people who couldn’t make it work. I found myself in being a mother. And he, perhaps, learned too late that the worth of a child isn’t measured in whether it’s a boy or a girl.
I walk with Lisa through the park. She laughs, pointing at birds, and I smile back. All the pain we endured seems worth it just to hear that laughter. The memories of cold stares and guilt still echo, but now I know the truth: Lisa wasn’t the cause of our broken family—she was simply the light that revealed the cracks. And that fault was never mine.
I adjust her little cap, kiss her head, and feel peace. We have a future. Maybe it doesn’t include him as a partner, but my daughter and I—we’ll be just fine. The sun shines on us, and I know I’ve made the right choice. I chose her. I chose myself. And that is enough.