I never thought I would have to leave my country to save my wife. But here I am, on a plane to Switzerland, with a suitcase full of cash and a desperate hope. She has been pregnant for two years, and no one knows why. The doctors have tried everything, from ultrasounds to MRIs, but they can't see what's inside her. They can't even tell if it's a baby or something else. Something I hope is just a complication from such a long term.

My wife and I had different views on having children. She had a hereditary condition that made pregnancy very difficult and dangerous for her, but she also had a strong desire to be a mother. She grew up as an only child and felt lonely. She wanted to have a big family and give her children the love and attention she craved. I loved my wife and wanted to support her, but I also worried about her health and well-being. I thought about adopting children who needed a home and a family. I thought that would be a safer and more compassionate option. We talked about it and agreed to try for a baby, even though it was risky and painful for her, but when she made it into her second trimester it was a blessing.

I thought I was ready for fatherhood. I had a stable job, a loving wife, and a cozy home; I was overjoyed. But the pregnancy didn't progress normally. Discomfort and pain became her constant companions. Morning sickness, fatigue, backaches, swelling, changes in sleep patterns, and other bodily changes made her miserable and exhausted. But that was nothing compared to the fear and anxiety that gripped me every day. She didn't show any signs of growth. She didn't feel any movement, except for pain. She didn't hear any heartbeat, except for silence. And the doctors didn't know what was wrong. We hoped for a miracle, but we got a nightmare.

Work-life balance was a joke. I could barely manage to get through the day, let alone support her and our baby. I felt guilty for working too much, but I also felt guilty for not earning enough. I tried to prepare for parenthood, but I had no idea what to expect or how to cope. I felt alone and overwhelmed.

Financial strain added to the stress. Medical bills piled up, and we had to dip into our savings. We worried about how we would afford maternity leave, childcare, and all the other expenses that come with having to perform so many tests. We had to cut back on everything, and we still barely made ends meet and make sure they were be no way miscarriage could happen.

Relationship stresses tested our bond. Pregnancy can put strain on any relationship, but ours was pushed to the limit. We argued more than ever, and we struggled to communicate and understand each other. We tried to be supportive and loving, but we also felt frustrated and resentful.

It's been 730 days. Not days of morning sickness and cute baby bumps, but 730 days of a swollen belly, endless doctors’ appointments, and a growing chasm between me and my wife.

It started normally enough. Positive test, excitement, planning for the tiny human on the way. But then, at month nine, something went wrong. The bump kept growing, but no heartbeat, no kicks, just an unsettling emptiness. Doctors were baffled, scans showed nothing but... shadows. Freaky shadows that sent chills down my spine.

New laws came in, shutting down any hope of invasive procedures. No termination, no poking around to see what the hell was going on. We were stuck with this... thing, growing inside my wife, stealing her life, and slowly poisoning ours.

We tried everything. Every specialist, every clinic, even lawmakers – all brick walls of apathy and legalese. No one cared that this wasn't normal, that her stomach was pushing against its limits, her legs and feet swollen like balloons. And every scan, every prod, every cold touch on her belly... it felt like scraping ice against my soul.

We used to be close, whispering dreams of the future. Now, the silence between us is deafening, punctuated only by her strained breaths and the creaking of the house settling in the dead of night. Sometimes, I stare at that monstrous bulge and wonder what it is, but I do worry more about my wife, and how this all feels for her.

I just wanted it to stop, and so did she. Whatever this was, it was stealing our lives. Even if it means silence, even if it means emptiness, and so I found myself, on a plane to Switzerland, with a suitcase full of cash and a desperate hope. She sat beside me asleep, but I soon noticed something along her stretched out shirt, a seemingly glossy steel shell had pierced through a skin.

We met a doctor at the airport, who took us to a secluded facility. He said he had a solution, but it came with a price.

“She might not make it.”, The Doctor said.

“I can’t survive any longer.”, My wife said.

So the procedure began. Dr. Petrov, a grizzled man, prepped our makeshift operating room. My wife, pale and fragile on the makeshift table, held my hand tighter than she ever had, her knuckles white against mine.

"Ready?" Petrov's voice rasped, a surgeon's mask obscuring his face.

My throat squeezed shut. "For what?"

"To pull back the curtain," he said, the glint of the angle grinder blade catching the sunlight. "For answers, even if they're not the ones you want."

I nodded, the lump in my throat immovable. Answers, any answers, were better than the gnawing void of the past two years.

The whirring of the grinder sliced through the silence, a mechanical shriek that sent shivers down my spine. It bit into my wife's flesh, the smell of burning iron filling the air. I squeezed her hand, a silent mantra of "it's okay, it's okay" bouncing against the walls of my skull.

Time morphed into a sickening blend of blood, bone, and metallic tang. Petrov worked with a grim efficiency, a sculptor chipping away at a grotesque statue. Every groan from my wife, every tremor of her body, was a fresh jolt of agony.

Then, a gasp. Dr. Petrov held up a piece of warped metal, its edges catching the light like a twisted halo. It pulsed faintly, an alien heartbeat in the sterile room.

"My God," Petrov breathed, his voice raw. "A shell. Wrapped around her spine."

My world shattered. A metal shell? Inside her? The phantom pregnancy, the cold void under her skin, it all made a horrifying sense. We weren't carrying a child, we were carrying… this.

My wife whimpered, eyes wide with a primal fear that mirrored my own. Her hand, slick with sweat, slipped from mine. I reached for her, but Petrov pushed me back, his face grim.

"We need to remove it," he said, his voice tight. "Now."

But as the grinder whined back to life, a new terror bloomed in the air, a metallic hum emanating from the shell itself. It pulsed, it resonated, before it slowly retracted its tentacles from my wife’s spine. Pushing itself out her to rolled over to the floor, as Petrov remained shocked. My wife lay still, her eyes empty, a vessel emptied of such a heavy thing.

As I looked down, and touched the shell. Petrov begged I stop, but I had to know what we had been dealing with. The shell gently opened and I wondered what to expect.. Until I met a beautiful baby girl, but her eyes weren’t right, they still aren’t. She’s growing up quickly, since that last week. She can talk now, and she really does love us, even helping her mom through her recovery, but I don’t know if she’s really mine, but what else can she be.