That evening, I was in the maternity ward, gazing at the tiny face of my newborn daughter. It seemed to me that nothing in the entire universe could be more delicate and amazing. I felt an incredible lightness, as if I were floating weightlessly, despite the pain accompanying the birth. The doctors congratulated me, claiming that everything had gone well. And all I could do was let tears of joy stream down my cheeks: “Our little girl…”

When Pavel, my husband, entered with a bouquet of flowers, I was sure that his love for our child would embrace her just as mine did. I saw him looking at the bundle; he smiled, but there was a hint of wariness in his eyes. I didn’t think much of it. I was convinced that happiness would engulf us both. Pavel leaned over, kissed me on the forehead, and glanced at the baby. My parents were also delighted, exclaiming, “Look at that miracle!”

Yet even then, I sensed something strange: when my husband (Pavel) found out that a girl had been born, his face froze for a moment. A crooked smile clung to the corners of his lips. It was as if he did not fully grasp what it meant. Of course, we knew the baby’s gender beforehand from the ultrasound, but apparently, deep down, Pavel had been hoping all along that the doctors were wrong. He repeatedly said, “It will be a boy!” But I just laughed: “The ultrasound shows a girl…”

While I was in the hospital, he came every day, bringing fruits and flowers, yet he was in no hurry to hold the baby. Other fathers happily spent long hours with their children, but he seemed to avoid it. I thought, “Everyone has their own character. Maybe he’s just shy?” Or perhaps he was simply afraid of harming the fragile little body of the baby. But something inside me wouldn’t let me accept such a simple explanation.

At the discharge, when I appeared in the corridor with my daughter in a pink envelope, Pavel took photos, smiling politely. My mother waved a handkerchief, and my father laughed. We left for home by car. And there, on the way, I suddenly noticed that Pavel was pensive, looking into the mirror. I asked, “Is everything alright?” He curtly replied, “Yes, just tired. Work is overwhelming.” And that was the end of the conversation.

Thus began our first days at home with the little one, whom we named Lisa. Sleepless nights, endless diapers, constant feedings. It didn’t scare me; on the contrary, I felt happiness as my daughter, warm and cozy, fell asleep in my arms. However, Pavel often pretended to be tired, leaving for work earlier. If I asked him to hold the baby, he would gruffly joke, “Hey, I’m scared. Better ask your mom.”

I explained it away by saying that sometimes men are afraid of little children. But inside, doubts were gnawing at me: “Maybe it’s not just fear…” One time, my mother-in-law came, picked Lisa up, while Pavel and his father (my father-in-law) sat nearby, discussing work. I noticed that Pavel would cast a fleeting glance at his daughter, but wouldn’t reach for her. My mother-in-law called, “Come on, take your princess!” but he replied, jokingly yet coldly, “Let her stay with grandma for now.” She blushed but didn’t insist. And I pressed my lips together, thinking, “Princess… doesn’t he really see her as his own?”

So, already in the first month after the birth, I felt that something was amiss. But I was too absorbed in caring for the baby to have a serious conversation. Moreover, every time I tried to ask him what was wrong, Pavel would say, “No, no, everything’s fine, I’m just not getting enough sleep, and work is too much.” I thought, “Maybe he just needs time to adjust to his new role as a father…” But it was only the beginning of the crack that threatened to become an abyss between us.

Months passed. Our daughter grew, learned to babble “goo-goo,” and smile. Everyone remarked that she was very sweet and calm. My mother, when visiting, always tried to bond with her son-in-law, saying, “Look how lovely she is! She even resembles you!” But Pavel brushed it off. Sometimes he grumbled, “Why are you all on my case? Can’t you see the baby is healthy?” There was an undertone of irritation in his voice. More and more often he stayed late at work, claiming, “The boss demands urgent reports.”

I felt bitter: I had dreamed of the two of us marveling at little Lisa, creating a family idyll. But nothing like that happened. He became increasingly distant. I tried to cook delicious dinners, made an effort to look my best, as if believing that I “had to” help my husband adjust to having a daughter instead of a son. Yes, once he let slip that he wanted a boy: “It’s as if continuing the lineage was key to him…” But could he really blame me for giving birth to a girl? It was madness. “After all, a child is a joy, whether it’s a boy or a girl.”

Yet deep down, I saw a coldness in his eyes whenever Lisa was mentioned. He never insulted her with words, nor did he display outright aggression. But no hint of tenderness emanated from him either. When I asked him to hold the baby, he would manage only a few minutes before finding an excuse to leave, saying, “I have things to do…” or “I’m not good with girls…” I felt endless pain: “She’s not to blame! She’s our blood…”

Gradually, the tension began to affect me as well. Pavel started nitpicking at household matters: “Why is there a mess? Why can’t you keep up? The dishes should be washed on time…” I wanted to shout, “I’m sitting here with a baby, exhausted from night feedings, it’s hard to manage everything!” But I remained silent, afraid of a scandal. My heart tightened with the fear that he would leave if I didn’t do things “his way.”

At night I cried, rocking Lisa, feeling guilty: “Maybe I’m not managing. He’s unhappy because he wanted a boy… Maybe I’ve let him down?” I understood that this was irrational, yet my emotions overwhelmed me. Once, I talked with my mom, and she consoled me: “Sweetheart, a girl is also the continuation of the lineage. He’s just being capricious.” But I sensed it wasn’t mere caprice, but a deep rejection.

One day in the hallway, I overheard him saying on the phone to someone (perhaps a friend): “I just can’t get used to this ‘daughter’ thing. A boy – that’s a different matter. But here she’s so fragile, weak… I never wanted this. And now my wife is all about the baby, she doesn’t notice me…” I was breathless: “How can anyone say such things?!” I wiped away my tears, trying to hide, but at that moment I realized that our family was cracking at the seams.

For the first time, our daughter managed to say “da…da…” – not very clearly, but it was understandable. I was elated, ran to Pavel: “Listen, she’s calling you!” But he only looked indifferent and mumbled, “Is that so?” – and went back to his phone. Lisa, seeing that her father did not respond, seemed upset, beginning to whimper. I understood everything: “He won’t accept her. He doesn’t want her love.”

That very night I couldn’t sleep, watching my sleeping husband. I thought, “Why should I try? If he can’t love our daughter, should I break myself and her? Maybe I should leave, so Lisa doesn’t grow up in an atmosphere of coldness?” Yet I still hoped that things would change. “Perhaps time will heal. In the meantime, we must fight?” And yet I was torn between trying to save the family and understanding that he was rejecting our daughter.

Months went by. Our daughter learned to walk. Then came the moment when Pavel first faced the threat of losing her: Lisa caught a cold and developed a high fever. One night, she had a convulsion, and I called an ambulance. While waiting for the doctors, Lisa lay trembling, and I was by her side, in tears. Pavel stood in the doorway, his face pale. It seemed to me that for the first time, genuine shock flickered in his eyes.

When the doctors took her to the hospital, Pavel came with me. In the ward, he sat by her side, watching as the nurses set up her IV, while she sniffled quietly. Suddenly, I noticed – for the first time, there was fear for her life in his eyes. He held her tiny hand when the doctor permitted. Yes, it didn’t last long, but I understood: something had stirred within him. “Perhaps the fear of loss will finally make him see his daughter as a dear person?”

For several days, we oscillated between the hospital ward and the corridor. Thank goodness, Lisa gradually recovered. When Pavel returned home, he looked subdued but genuinely inquired about her condition. I noticed that he even tried to bring her a toy. I thought, “Is this the beginning of change? Could it be that he is finally waking up from his stubborn conviction that ‘a girl is not right’?”

Eventually, Lisa was discharged. Back home, I nursed her, rejoicing in her recovery. Pavel, it seemed, had also grown calmer. And then, suddenly, he sat next to our daughter and picked her up – hesitantly, but he did. Lisa looked at him, frightened, as if seeing him in that role for the first time, but then smiled and grabbed his finger. And Pavel melted… I saw something new in his face – a softness. I wanted to sigh with relief.

However, although I thought that marked a happy ending, in reality it was only a turning point. Pavel did not immediately become a loving father. But there were steps: he complained less, sometimes played with Lisa on his own, even managed to take her for a ride in the stroller. I, filled with joy, hoped that we could save our family. No matter how bitter it was to recall his words about “a girl not being right,” now it seemed he was changing.

Yet at the same time, I increasingly heard his reproaches: “If you had given birth to a boy… everything would have been easier.” I tried to explain, “That’s not a choice! You must love the child, whoever is born!” He agreed, but evidently, deep inside, that conservative idea about continuing the lineage still resided. Conflicts arose on that basis: I would say, “Lisa is already your blood!” And he would reply, “I know… just that my dreams have been shattered…”

When Lisa was a few months older (she had just turned one), the question of a new apartment arose, because our little flat was too small. I thought we’d take on a bigger mortgage, but Pavel withdrew: “Do what you want.” I understood that I couldn’t decide everything by myself; I needed help. And then I realized that despite some rapprochement, our interaction was cracking at the seams. I was tired of living in constant fear that he would leave, and I didn’t want to impose anymore.

I suggested, “Maybe we should have another child? It could be a boy…” I said that hoping to save our marriage. But Pavel, with a crooked smirk, retorted, “Not sure it’ll be a boy. Maybe another girl. And really, I’m not even sure I want to continue…” It sounded like a blow. I exploded, “What do you mean ‘not sure’?! Did you think I’d keep trying forever until we had a boy?!” He pressed his lips together: “Men in my family have always dreamed of sons. Since it didn’t happen – well… we have to accept it. But I… don’t have the strength to continue this farce.”

I ran out of the room in tears, clutching my daughter, feeling that I no longer wanted to fight. “Life can’t always be a test: either you have a son or you don’t; either you please him or you don’t.” That night, I lay next to my daughter, thinking, “Lisa isn’t to blame for being born a girl. She deserves love. If her father can’t give it to her, then he should go his own way…”

In the end, I decided to stop fighting for my husband’s love. I ceased trying to “please” him, stopped asking him to pay attention to Lisa. I focused on my daughter: taking her for walks, engaging in “developmental” activities, reading books on raising girls, learning to be independent. My mother supported me emotionally. It also helped that Lisa grew up to be sociable and cheerful. With her, it was easy to forget about the harsh reality.

During this time, a small tragedy occurred: Lisa fell during a walk and hit her head. In a panic, I took her to the hospital. When Pavel heard, he rushed over. I saw him, for the first time, genuinely distressed. “Where is she? How is she?” – he ran back and forth in the corridor. And when the doctors said that it would turn out to be just a minor scare, he slumped onto a chair and covered his face with his hands. I felt a surge of emotions: “He can love her after all…” was the fleeting thought. But I wasn’t sure that would be enough to save our family.

After that incident, Pavel became a slightly more engaged father: sometimes he would hold Lisa, push her in the stroller, smile at her – albeit somewhat forced. Occasionally, I saw a trace of remorse in his eyes, as if he understood that he had been unjust. But I… was no longer sure if I could ever trust him again.

One day, we were sitting together in the kitchen while Lisa slept. Pavel said, “Forgive me for all those words about ‘a girl not being right…’ I never meant to hurt either her or you.” I silently lowered my gaze into my cup. “It’s too late; the wound is deep already.” And he added, “But I wasn’t happy… I had imagined a son…” I sadly replied, “You’ve destroyed everything yourself, Pavel. And a daughter isn’t a reason to destroy everything. But you decided it that way…”

Realizing that the old family was gone, Pavel and I moved on to practicalities: we agreed to divide the apartment. Fortunately, I managed to register it in my name (my mother helped me with an extra sum). Pavel rented a room from acquaintances and promised to help financially with the child. “May I visit Lisa?” he asked. I nodded in agreement, “It’s your choice—if you want to be her father, then be. But I… can no longer play the role of a happy wife.”

Lisa, now nearly two years old, was playing with her toys when Pavel came to see her. I stood aside, watching. When Lisa saw her father, she ran to him, laughing, standing on her tiptoes: “Da-da!” And he picked her up, held her close, seemingly happy, even though he knew our family was broken. Soft music played from a speaker, and on the wall were photos on which Pavel and I no longer appeared – I had removed them.

At that moment, I realized: “Perhaps he is finally accepting his daughter, but between us, it’s all over.” When Lisa fell asleep, we stepped out into the corridor. Pavel looked at me and said, “Thank you for not forbidding me from seeing her.” I replied, “A child is not to blame for anything. I hope you don’t disappoint her the way you disappointed me.” In his eyes, there was sorrow: “I understand, I’m at fault…” I only shook my head, as if saying, “Nothing can be undone.”

Thus, we went our separate ways. He, with the feeling of a belated realization that he had lost something precious. I, with inner pain but also clarity: “My greatest value is my daughter. I won’t let her be hurt or feel unwanted.” Perhaps this story does not have the classic happy ending: we did not reconcile. But we do not hate each other to the grave either. We simply go our separate ways. I found myself in motherhood and independence. And he, perhaps, realized forever that one should not break a woman over the matter of “a boy or a girl.”

I stroll in the park with my daughter. Lisa laughs, pointing her finger at the pigeons. I smile at her, understanding that all the suffering is repaid by her ringing laughter. Memories of the pain between my husband and me, his coldness, my inner turmoil, and the guilt flood back… But now I know: “She isn’t the cause of our crisis; she is merely the catalyst for what was already there. He could not accept our daughter. That is his fault, not mine.”

I gently adjust my daughter’s little cap, kiss her on the crown. “We have a future. Even if it’s without him as a husband, my daughter and I will be happy.” The sun shines on the two of us, and I know that life moves forward, and that my hatred for him is giving way to understanding: he made a mistake, and only he can decide whether to fix it. I, however, have made my choice: to hold on to my daughter and to my own worth.