Days blurred into nights, and nights stretched endlessly without rest.
My body was no longer my own—it had become a vessel of pain and exhaustion. The simplest tasks left me breathless. Walking felt like wading through water. My legs swelled painfully, my back ached constantly, and every time I touched my belly, I wondered if my baby could feel the fear trapped inside me.
Steve's rages became more frequent.
He had stopped pretending to feel guilty.
The cycle had become predictable—he would come home late, angry, drunk. The slightest mistake, the smallest perceived offense, would spark his fury.
One evening, as I set his dinner on the table, my hand accidentally knocked over a glass of water.
The glass hit the floor and shattered.
The sound echoed like a gunshot through the apartment.
Before I could react, his hand was already raised.
But this time… I saw it coming.
For the first time, instead of freezing in fear, I flinched and took a step back.
His hand hung in the air for a long, tense second before he slammed his fist down onto the table instead, sending the plate flying across the room.
"Look at you!" he sneered, his lips curled in disgust. "Always scared. Always weak. No wonder no one else wanted you!"
Those words cut deeper than his fists ever could.
I stood there, trembling, my mind screaming "Leave! Just leave!"
But my feet felt nailed to the floor.
He stormed out again, the door slamming so hard it rattled the thin walls.
And once again, I was left in the wreckage.
That night, something inside me finally broke.
I found myself standing by the window long after the city had gone quiet. The streets below were empty, bathed in the sickly orange glow of the streetlights.
My fingers pressed against the glass, and I asked myself the question I had avoided for so long:
"Is this how my life will end?"
A forgotten woman in a broken apartment, bruised and silenced, waiting for someone who would never change?
The weight of that thought crushed me.
I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and sobbed—deep, painful sobs that shook my entire body.
And then…
Through my tears, I felt it again.
A soft flutter.
Then another.
A small, determined movement from inside me.
My baby—still fighting.
Still holding on.
Through everything, this tiny life had never given up.
And in that moment, something shifted.
I placed my trembling hands over my belly and whispered, my voice cracked but full of a fragile, growing conviction:
"If you're still fighting… then maybe I can fight too."
That was the night I stopped waiting for a rescue.
I didn't have a plan. I didn't know how or when.
But for the first time, I understood something clearly:
If I didn't save myself, no one else would.
And even though my heart still felt shattered, in the smallest corner of my soul, something had begun to stir—the first flicker of courage.