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In denial, in perplexity. She didn't know
how to deal with these strange feelings
and emotions budding within her as she
spent time with her six male friends.
Growing up surrounded by men her
entire life, she...
The house echoed with the cries of a newborn, the shuffle of tired feet on hardwood floors, and the lullabies Yuto hummed at midnight to soothe his daughter.
Nagisa stayed in the guest room now. It wasn’t spoken of. It just happened.
After they were discharged from the hospital, Yuto had tried. God, he tried. He brought her warm meals to bed, spoke gently even when her words became harsh. But no matter what he did, she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, look at the child.
Y/n was three weeks old now, tiny fists always moving, head heavy and wobbly, her cries cutting through the early hours. Yuto was the one to get up every time. He held her when she screamed. He fed her from a bottle. He changed every diaper. He never complained. Not even when Renzou dropped by and saw it all firsthand.
Yuto had just finished changing Y/n when Renzou knocked and let himself in, carrying bags of groceries. “You’re here again?” Yuto asked, not unkindly, bouncing his daughter over his shoulder.
“Of course. Dealing with newborn isn't easy job, especially for new parents.” Renzou answered casually, but his eyes scanned the house with subtle judgment. “You look like hell.”
Yuto smiled tiredly. “I’m doing okay.”
“Where’s Nagisa?”
“In her room. Sleeping, I think.”
Renzou didn’t push. But over the next hour, as he helped Yuto sterilize bottles and fold baby clothes, he noticed what wasn’t being said.
Nagisa never once stepped out. No curious peek at the baby. No passing glance at her husband holding their child.
When Yuto turned away for a moment to answer a text, Renzou caught the whisper he didn’t mean to hear.
“Papa’s got you,” Yuto murmured, swaying Y/n lovingly. “It’s just you and me, sweetheart.”
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Nagisa’s behavior hadn’t improved since she came home. In fact, it worsened. She refused to hold Y/n, let alone feed her. On bad days, she screamed at the baby for crying too much, calling her a parasite, a selfish monster who ruined her body, her beauty, her life.
Yuto never raised his voice back. He simply picked up his daughter, rocked her, and whispered apologies into her hair.
“She doesn’t mean it,” he would say. “She’s sick right now.”
He’d known something was wrong from the start. This wasn't just exhaustion. It wasn’t temporary frustration. So he hired a therapist. He begged Nagisa to go.
She did. Twice.
She came home angrier, saying the woman didn’t understand, that the therapist made her feel guilty for being honest about hating her own child.
The next appointment, she never showed up.
Now Yuto didn’t know what to do. Every day felt like a balancing act—holding his marriage together with one hand and his daughter with the other.
