So when Lucy told him she was pregnant, he felt something rupture inside—something joyful, something sacred. He held her, made wild promises, and whispered dreams he never dared to voice before. They were finally going to start a family. A boy would break the curse. A boy would redeem his bloodline.
The first ultrasound felt like magic—until the doctor pointed to the screen and said, “Two girls.” Lucy was laughing, weeping, glowing. Justin nodded, smiled, kissed her hand. But beneath the joy, a small ache settled in. He wanted to be happy. He was happy. But it wasn’t quite the dream.
Still, he celebrated. Pink streamers, handmade signs, bottles of sparkling juice—they brought the twins home to confetti and light. He told Lucy they’d try again. And she, who knew the weight behind his longing, agreed without hesitation. Her love didn’t come with conditions. She carried his hopes as if they were her own.
A year later, another pregnancy. Another set of twins. More girls. The doctor explained Lucy carried a gene that made twins likely. Lucy marveled at it, calling herself “a miracle machine.” Justin chuckled, but inside, a quiet dread grew. A boy still hadn’t come, and his hope was starting to harden.