My name’s Ian, 33 years old, married to Jenna, and we’re eagerly awaiting the arrival of our first child. Life seemed to be on a clear path: I have a stable job in IT, and Jenna, a talented freelance photographer, fills our days with discussions about baby names, nursery colors, and even playful debates over the merits of pineapple on pizza. It’s a normal, happy life.One night, as the snow piled high outside, I was in the kitchen making hot cocoa—a new favorite of Jenna’s since she got pregnant. The soft hum of the heater created a cozy contrast to the blizzard outside. Jenna, curled up on the couch, was half-heartedly scrolling through her phone while absentmindedly rubbing her belly. “Babe, should we go with blue or green for the nursery?” she asked, her voice light but tinged with fatigue. “I still say yellow,” I replied, pouring the cocoa into mugs. “It’s neutral, bright, and it won’t show spit-up as much.”
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