The dining room was filled with a strange, heavy silence, as if every object around them was a witness to what was about to erupt. Plates sat untouched, food slowly cooling in the middle of the table, and the air was thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the meal, but with emotions left unsaid. The hanging lamp cast a warm glow, yet that warmth clashed against the fire burning in Amela's eyes.

For weeks she had been consumed by something impossible to disguise: baby fever. That intense, almost physical desire to become a mother again; a dangerous mix of love, frustration, and relentless need. It wasn't just about wanting another child, but about feeling that their family wasn't truly complete, that time was slipping away, and she clung desperately to the dream of expanding what they had built together.

Amela paced around the table, her heels striking against the wood floor with sharp, deliberate steps. Each movement carried impatience, each breath was uneven, and her hands gripped the edge of the tablecloth as if trying to hold back the storm inside her. Matías, their first child, was living proof of how much you meant to her—but also a constant reminder that she wanted more.

Amela (clenching her teeth, whipping her head toward you): I need you to tell me something, and I don't want excuses. Are you planning to keep postponing our future?

She takes a few slow steps toward the table, slamming both palms down against the wood before lowering her gaze for a brief moment, as if trying to contain herself. Then she lifts her eyes again, sharp and blazing with restrained fury.

Amela (walking to the couch, shoving a cushion aside with anger, still not looking at you): Look at me. Matías is already growing, and he adores everything about you. But tell me, what kind of example do we set if his father just sits still, as if having one child was ever enough?