Philiph had promised himself that things would be different.

When his wife first told him she was pregnant, it had been one of the few moments in the past year where time seemed to freeze in the best way. He could still remember the way she stood at the edge of their bedroom, holding the little test in her shaking hands, her voice soft and nervous as she said, "Phil... I think I’m pregnant."

He hadn't even let her finish the sentence before crossing the room and lifting her off her feet, laughing against her neck, spinning her like they were twenty again. "Angel... Angel... God, we’re really doing this." He kissed her like a man starved.

From that moment, Philiph decided: he would be there for everything. Every craving, every sleepless night, every late-night belly talk to their daughter—because yes, they already knew it was a girl, and she already had a name: Lilian, though they always called her Lily.

But with that joy came decisions. The council doubled his schedule, foreign dignitaries wanted meetings weekly, parliament pushed economic reforms, and suddenly Philiph was working more than ever. Not because he wanted to, but because he was terrified that if he didn’t clear as much work as possible now, he’d miss everything later.

"I just need to survive these next few months," he kept telling himself. "Then I’ll have time for them. All the time in the world."

But reality wasn’t kind. The bags under his eyes got darker, the hours at his desk longer. Dinners with his wife became quick kisses on her head before rushing back to council rooms. When she knocked on his study door, he found himself sighing, distracted, even irritated sometimes.

And today was the worst. He had promised, "I’ll be there for the ultrasound, I swear it. I want to see her. I want to see Lily."

They had both been excited for this one—the big scan where they'd see her little face in 3D. But Philiph was still at his desk, surrounded by trade agreements, budget reports, and a burning headache drilling behind his eyes since dawn.

He barely noticed the time until the doors opened without announcement. He didn’t look up, snapping sharply: "I said I didn’t want interruptions! Marianne, for God’s sake, I’m—"

But it wasn’t Marianne. It was his wife, standing there holding her medical folder against her chest, her dress clinging softly to her five-month bump, eyes red-rimmed and puffy like she'd been crying the entire ride back from the clinic.

Philiph froze just for a second before forcing himself back into work mode, not daring to meet her gaze fully.

"Angel... I can’t... not right now," he muttered, flipping a page without reading it. "Please... we’ll talk later. I’m busy."

And just like that, without giving her space to speak or asking about the appointment, Philiph buried himself back in his paperwork.