Jane's POV
Married life felt like slipping into warm sunlight ever3 morning. The first few weeks after the wedding were a dream—soft, peaceful, full of small joys that made everything feel right in the world.
I woke up each morning to Henry's kisses on my forehead and breakfast already waiting on the dining table. He would leave little notes beside my plate.
"Have a beautiful day, my love."
"I miss you already."
"Dinner tonight? Your favorite?"
The small gestures made me fall deeper in love with him. We were that couple—the one people pointed at and said, "That's what true happiness looks like."
Our home was calm, filled with soft music, shared laughter, and late-night conversations. We turned our spare bedroom into a mini-library, added new curtains to the living room, and planted two rose bushes behind the house.
One evening, as we stood there watering them together, Henry wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
"These roses will grow with us," he said.
"Grow like our family," I corrected sweetly.
His arm stiffened for a moment — a pause so brief I almost missed it.
"Yeah," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course."
But I brushed it off. Why worry?
We were happy. We were building a life.
Henry's mother checked on us every weekend, always arriving with fruits or pastries.
"My darlings!" she would say, hugging us both tightly. She loved her son fiercely, and she welcomed me with the same warmth. Sometimes too warmly.
One afternoon, as she handed me a tray of cupcakes, she said with a hopeful smile, "You two look so happy together… I can't wait to hear little footsteps in this house."
I blushed. "We're taking each day as it comes, Susan. But hopefully soon." if felt weird calling her my her first name at first but she said we're more than family and that it's best to skip the formalities.
She touched my cheek kindly. "I know you'll be wonderful parents."
Henry always grew tense when she mentioned children, but I assumed it was nerves.
Newlyweds often felt pressured by family expectations — that's what I believed at the time.
On our three-month anniversary, Henry surprised me with dinner reservations at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. The night was warm, and lights glittered like scattered diamonds across the skyline.
"You're spoiling me," I teased as we sat down.
"You deserve everything," he replied gently.
His hand found mine across the table.
"Jane," he said softly, "you've made me happier than I've ever been."
I smiled shyly. "And you've made me feel safe again."
The waiter brought wine, and we clinked glasses.
"To us," he said.
"To forever," I whispered.
And I meant it.
But life has a strange way of slipping cracks into perfection.
It happened one night, casually, unexpectedly.
I entered the bedroom after my bath to find Henry sitting on the edge of the bed, packets of condoms in his hand.
I paused. "Oh… I thought… we don't need those anymore?"
He didn't look up. "Jane, I… I'm not ready yet."
My smile slowly faded. "Ready for what?"
He swallowed hard. "For children."
I blinked. "But we talked about having kids. We both agreed we wanted them."
"I know," he said quickly. "Just… not now."
"But we're married now, you know how much I want this," I said softly, stepping toward him. "I want to start trying."
He finally looked up at me — guilt flickering in his eyes.
"Can we wait a little longer? Please?"
The request stung in ways I wasn't prepared for.
Still, I told myself it was just nerves.
"Okay," I whispered. "Just tell me when you're ready."
But over the next few weeks, it wasn't just the condoms.
It was the distance. Subtle, quiet, but noticeable.
Henry would kiss my forehead instead of my lips.
He came home later than usual.
He avoided intimate moments, claiming fatigue, stress, deadlines, headaches.
And when his mother called again to ask when she'd become a grandmother…
Henry stood up abruptly and walked away without answering.
I stared after him, a knot forming in my stomach.
One night, when we lay in bed, I reached for him — gently, lovingly.
"Henry," I whispered, "talk to me."
But he turned away, pulling the covers with him.
"Goodnight, Jane."
I lay there staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the heaviness pressing against my chest.
Something was wrong.
I could feel it.
And as I watched the man I loved slowly drift away from me, I had no idea that this was only the beginning — the first tiny crack in a heart that would soon be completely fractured.