The air in the apartment always felt heavy now.
Not because of the broken fan or the humid weather, but because every corner of this home held invisible threats. I lived each day walking on eggshells, listening for the smallest changes—the way the front door slammed, the sharp clink of his keys on the glass table, the dragging weight of his footsteps on the floor.
That night, it was worse than usual.
The door burst open with a loud bang that made me jump. Steve stormed in, his shirt half-untucked, his eyes glazed over from alcohol. The stench of cigarettes and cheap liquor hit me before he even spoke.
My arms moved instinctively to cover my belly. It was a reflex now, like breathing.
He didn't even look at me. He went straight to the kitchen.
I froze in place, my heart racing painfully against my ribs. I had spent the whole afternoon cooking his favorite meal—chicken stew, just the way he liked it. My back had ached the entire time, my feet swollen, but I thought… maybe if I tried a little harder, today would be different.
I heard the sharp scrape of the chair, the clatter of a plate being lifted. Then silence.
And then—the crash.
The plate shattered against the wall, the sound exploding through the apartment like a gunshot. I stood paralyzed, my breath caught in my throat.
"Cold food again?!" His voice thundered through the small apartment. "You sit here all day doing nothing, and you can't even make a proper meal?"
I wanted to scream. "I'm pregnant! I'm exhausted! I'm sick every day, and I'm still trying!"
But no words came out. My lips trembled, but my voice was trapped behind the wall of fear that had built itself inside me.
I lowered my head and stared at the floor, watching the food drip down the wall, the shattered porcelain lying in sharp, dangerous pieces—just like me.
The fight escalated quickly after that.
It always did.
One moment he was yelling, the next his hands were on me. He grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging in so tight I felt my skin bruise under his grip.
"Why do you always look at me like that? Like you're better than me?" he snarled, his face inches from mine.
"Steve… please… you're hurting me…" I whispered, my voice barely audible, my body shaking.
And then, without warning, he shoved me.
My back slammed into the wall, the pain shooting through me like fire.
But worse than the pain was the terrifying thought that raced through my mind as my belly pressed hard against the wall:
"Please… please don't let anything happen to my baby…"
I slid down to the floor, curling myself into a protective ball, my arms wrapping around my belly as if my thin, shaking hands could somehow shield my child from all the ugliness of this world.
And then, through the panic and pain, I felt it.
A faint flutter.
So soft, so delicate—like the brush of butterfly wings deep inside me.
It was the first real movement I had felt. Not strong enough to be a kick, but just enough to remind me: "I'm still here, Mommy… I'm still fighting."
My vision blurred with tears.
I held my belly tighter, rocking back and forth on the cold, unforgiving tile floor.
"I'm so sorry… I'm so, so sorry…" I whispered over and over again through my sobs.
That night, I slept on the bathroom floor.
I didn't have the strength to move. My cheek rested against the cold, cracked tiles. My entire body ached. My lips were swollen, my wrist throbbed painfully, and my heart felt like it had finally shattered into pieces too small to ever put back together.
Yet somehow, despite everything, I found myself whispering into the dark:
"Just hold on a little longer… Tomorrow, I'll try again to be stronger."
And even though I didn't believe it, I told myself this lie because it was the only thing keeping me alive.