The sun rose like it did every other day, but that morning, the light felt almost cruel.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand gently resting over my swollen cheek, the skin still burning under my touch. It had turned an ugly shade of purple overnight, a sharp contrast against the pale exhaustion etched into my face. I turned my head slowly, avoiding the mirror.
I couldn't look at myself.
Because if I did, I'd have to admit the truth.That last night wasn't a nightmare.It happened.He really hit me.
I heard Steve's soft breathing behind me. He was still asleep, sprawled across the bed like nothing had happened, as if he hadn't broken me into a thousand silent pieces just hours ago.
I pressed my lips together to keep from crying again. I couldn't afford more tears. Not now.
That morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. I dabbed on layers of foundation, concealer, powder—anything to hide the evidence. The bruise still peeked through, a faint shadow of the violence I couldn't erase.
"Just for today," I told myself. "Just smile. Pretend. You're strong. You have to be."
I walked to the kitchen, every step feeling heavier than the last. Steve was up now, scrolling through his phone like nothing had changed between us.
When our eyes met, I instinctively flinched.
He noticed, but instead of apologizing, he simply muttered, "Stop looking at me like that. I said I didn't mean to."
That was his apology. That was all I was worth that morning.
Later that day, I drove myself to my father's house. My heart pounded the entire way there, terrified that he might see through the makeup, might notice the way I winced when I turned my head too quickly.
I wasn't ready for his disappointment. I wasn't ready for his eyes to ask me why, when I didn't even have the strength to answer.
My father was lying in bed, his health worsening by the day. His face was thin, his once strong hands trembling slightly as he reached for the glass of water beside him.
"Are you eating well?" he asked in his weak, raspy voice.
I nodded quickly, forcing a smile so tight my cheek ached.
"You're pale… you've lost weight," he said softly, his eyes searching my face. For a terrifying second, I thought he saw through it all—that he knew, without me saying a word.
But he simply sighed and closed his eyes, too tired to press me further.
I sat by his side for hours that day, my hand resting protectively over my belly, feeling the faintest flutter of life within me. My child kicked softly, as if reminding me, "I'm here, Mommy. Stay strong."
Tears welled up in my eyes again.
How much longer could I keep pretending? How much longer could I keep hiding behind these lies?
That night, back in the apartment, I crawled into bed next to Steve. He didn't even say goodnight.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, my hand gently rubbing my belly.
And in the darkness, I made myself a silent promise:
"Tomorrow, I'll try again to be strong. Just one more day. And maybe… maybe one day, I'll find the courage to walk away for good."