Her cries were muffled beneath his knees. He pinned her down, one arm twisted under his weight, the other trapped. Her face was left exposed. He sat over her like a grotesque monument to power, his breathing harsh, his anger thick in the air.
Then the slaps began—heavy, fast, each one louder than the last, each one punctuated by his guttural grunts. Her body jerked with every strike, her cheek blooming into red and purple, her ears ringing. He didn't speak. He only hit.
When he finally rose, he spat on her face like she was nothing. He muttered something she couldn't hear over the high-pitched whine in her ears and walked out. The slam of the door felt like the final blow.
She stayed on the floor. Her face ached. Her belly twisted. She touched her nose and felt the warm slickness of blood. Her palms stung from the scrape of tile. Her chest rose and fell in silent sobs.
*The baby,* she whispered, the thought like a prayer. *The baby.*
Then she cried loud, choking sobs that emptied her lungs. She cried until the floor beneath her was damp with tears, until her body gave in and her breathing steadied into small, exhausted gasps.
When she finally moved, she cleaned herself. She didn't want Samuel to see her like that—bloodied, broken. She wiped the floor, rinsed the cloth, cleaned her face with trembling hands. The swelling was impossible to hide, but the blood was gone. The bandage she wrapped around her arm was loose, but enough. The bruises would explain themselves, or not.
Evening came. The house was quiet.
She was sitting on the couch when the front door creaked open. Samuel's voice echoed from the entryway.
"Mom?"
No response.
"Mom," a little louder.
She cleared her throat. "I'm here."
He walked in and stopped. His body froze mid-step, his breath catching in his chest. Her face was a mask of bruises. Her eye was puffed halfway shut; a dark smear stained the skin around her cheekbone.
He didn't speak. His mouth moved, then stopped again.
She smiled at him—soft, tired—a gesture that meant *please don't ask*. That smile told him everything he didn't need words for. Rage coursed through his chest, burning up his neck and into his face as he started stepping forward.
"He did this."
She reached for him, quickly grabbing his wrist before he could turn. "Please," she whispered, her voice raw and strained. "It was my fault. I shouldn't have said what I said."
Samuel clenched his jaw. His shoulders rose and fell in silence.
She stood there, hands still on his wrist, then wrapped her arms around his back. Her face pressed into him and she sobbed quietly, like she didn't want to disturb the walls.
Samuel was taller now. He could feel the top of her head shake against his back. His throat tightened. A single tear rolled down his cheek, sliding into the corner of his mouth. He bit his lip hard, but he didn't make a sound.
He just stood there.
That night, the man came home late, stinking of booze. He staggered through the front door, didn't look at anyone, didn't say anything—just tossed his shoes aside and made his way to the bedroom. The door slammed behind him.
Samuel sat outside on the step. The night air was warm. He could hear the man snoring from inside through the window. He also heard the soft, irregular sound of his mother crying. It was a slow, helpless weeping, the kind that made his eyes sting and his fists clench.
The following days were worse. The man barely spoke to her unless it was to insult her. He called her trash, told her she was washed up, used up, good for nothing. Told her no one would ever love her again, that he pulled her from the gutter and made her somebody, that she should be grateful.
Samuel listened from the hallway, biting down on his rage like it was a piece of wood.
The man wouldn't lay a finger on her—not right away—but his mouth was just as sharp. He'd switch from silence to venom, then back again, like she wasn't even there. But he always made sure the fridge was full, the rent was paid. The abuse came with receipts.
Then he started bringing women to the house.
One night, he brought home a tenant from downstairs. Samuel recognized her. His mother did too. She looked at the woman, then at him. He didn't look back. He just took the woman by the hand and led her into the bedroom—the same bed he shared with Samuel's mother. He locked the door behind him.
Samuel's mother stood in the hallway, holding her stomach with one hand, pressing the other against the locked doorknob. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. She just stood there, unmoving.
Samuel offered her his bed.
She shook her head. "I'll stay on the couch."
And she did.
The cycle repeated. Every time she tried to speak up, he gaslighted her, twisted her words, guilt-tripped her into silence.
"You're too sensitive.""You're the one pushing me away.""You want me to leave? Say the word."
Still, she made excuses.
"He's just going through something."
She told Samuel one night, "He'll come around. He wasn't always like this."
She was nearly seven months pregnant when it all boiled over.
That evening, he pulled up in his SUV, tires crunching over gravel. The door slammed. He came inside and cracked open a beer, lounging on the couch with his phone. His thumb scrolled endlessly. He didn't look up.
Samuel's mother walked in slowly, cautiously. "How was work?" she asked gently.
"Fine."
She sat beside him, not too close. "You've been distant lately."
He kept scrolling.
"I was just thinking maybe we could talk. Just us, like we used to. Nothing—I know things haven't been easy, but we've been through worse, haven't we?" Her voice cracked. "We laughed before. We loved each other. If there's something wrong, we can fix it. I want to fix it."
He set the beer bottle down on the table and stood up.
She stood too and reached out, held his hand. The moment she touched him, he snapped his hand away like she was fire.
Meanwhile, Samuel had just finished installing a brake pad on a black saloon car. He wiped his hands, shouted a quick goodbye to one of the other boys, and started cleaning up. It was almost closing time. He'd been leaving early these days. He didn't trust the man alone with his mother—not after the last time.
He took a bus halfway, then walked the rest.
As he turned into the compound, he heard the screams—his mother's voice, high and terrified, then the man's voice, low and raging.
Samuel didn't think.
He sprinted for the house, heart pounding. When he burst through the door, he saw the man on top of her, fists flying—closed-fist punches to her chest, her face, her stomach. She was screaming, hands raised, trying to block the blows.
Samuel grabbed the beer bottle from the table and smashed it across the man's skull. Glass exploded. The man stumbled.
Samuel dragged him up by the collar and punched him in the temple with all the force his body could give. The man crumpled to the floor.
Samuel turned to his mother.
She was bleeding. Her lip was split. Her face was purple. Her breathing was shallow. Her hands trembled as they held her swollen belly.
"Mom."
He dropped to his knees beside her.
"Mom. We need to go. Now."