Time had lost its meaning.
I no longer counted days—I counted hours between his outbursts, between the nights I could close my eyes for an hour without jolting awake in panic.
My body had become nothing more than a prison, stretched thin by the weight of life inside me and the life I was barely clinging to outside.
Even breathing had become a task.
My legs were swollen beyond recognition. My hands trembled constantly from exhaustion. But Steve didn't care.
"You're just being dramatic," he sneered one afternoon as I sat on the living room floor, my breath shallow, struggling against the sharp cramps building in my abdomen.
"It's just pregnancy. Women do this all the time. Stop looking for pity."
His words sliced through me sharper than the contraction pain that was starting to ripple through my body.
I wanted to scream, "I'm not looking for pity! I'm just trying to survive!"
But I didn't.
I stayed silent. Like always.
Because I had learned—silence was safer.
That night, the power went out.
The apartment was plunged into suffocating darkness.
Without the weak hum of the old fan, the heat became unbearable. The air felt thick, pressing down on my chest with every labored breath.
I sat in the corner of the room, my back against the cold wall, sweat soaking through my thin clothes, my belly tight with the baby's restless movements.
Steve had left again—no explanations, no return time.
I was alone.
Truly, completely alone.
I pressed my forehead against my knees, rocking slowly, whispering to my unborn child:
"I'm still here. I'm still trying. Please… just hold on."
The cramps became stronger that night, sharper, deeper, like tiny knives twisting from the inside.
I knew what was happening.
Labor was close.
My baby was coming… and I was utterly unprepared.
No hospital bag.
No one to call.
No idea how I would even get to the hospital when the time came.
Panic began to rise in my throat like bile.
"No… not yet. I'm not ready. I'm not ready…"
I pressed my palm against my belly, trying to calm the life within me. The baby shifted again, as if answering, "But I am, Mommy. I'm ready to meet you."
The hours stretched endlessly through that long, powerless night.
Every sound outside made my heart stop.
Was it him coming back? Drunk? Angry?
Would I have to face his rage tonight—on the very edge of giving birth?
I sat there, eyes wide open, terrified of both his return and the pain growing inside me.
By dawn, my body was trembling from exhaustion, my lips cracked from thirst, my mind lost in a haze of fear and resignation.
As the first light of morning crept through the grimy windows, I realized—
I had nothing left to give.
Not to him.
Not even to myself.
The only thing keeping me from breaking completely… was the tiny life still moving inside me.
"Please… just wait a little longer," I whispered through cracked lips, pressing both hands tightly over my belly. "Just wait until I figure out how to save you…"
But deep down, I knew the truth—
I wasn't the one saving anyone anymore.
It was my baby… saving me.