Three months.
That's how long I've been married.
Ninety-one days, if I count each one. I have. I do. Every single morning, I wake up and count another day I survived in a house that feels more like a coffin. I sleep next to a man who calls himself my husband. I cook for him, clean after him, fold his clothes, iron his shirts, make the bed after he messes it up. And when he wants me, I go quiet, and I let him.
Because that's what wives do, right?
That's what I was raised to believe.
But something in me broke the night I got married, and I've never found it again.
I don't talk much anymore.
There's no one to talk to. No one who'd understand if I tried.
My sisters have moved on — some already married, some waiting to be. They think this is how life works. They think I'm lucky. That I've been chosen for something good.
My mother checks in sometimes. She asks if I'm adjusting. If Noah treats me well. If I've started trying for a baby. I lie to her. I always say yes. But I want to scream every time she asks.
I wanted to go back to school.
I wanted to study literature.
I wanted to be someone.
But Noah said no.
"You don't need school," he told me on the second week of our marriage. "You're a wife now. That's your job."
So now I wake up, make his coffee, scrub the kitchen, fold laundry, and smile like it doesn't kill me.
I haven't looked at myself in the mirror in weeks.
Because every time I do, I don't recognize the girl staring back.
Just a shell. A shell that walks, breathes, cooks, and obeys.
I've tried to run away three times.
The first time, I barely made it two blocks before his cousin spotted me and dragged me back. The second time, it was my brother-in-law who caught me sneaking out at night. The third time, I made it all the way to the bus station — but Noah had my ID, my phone, and all my money. I stood there shaking, holding nothing but my coat, crying in front of strangers, until someone called him and he came to get me.
He didn't hit me.
He didn't scream.
He just looked at me, like I was a disobedient child.
"You'll learn," he said. "It's not freedom you need. It's discipline."
That night, he made sure I understood exactly what that meant.
I stopped trying after that.
I just shut down.
Not because I gave up hope — but because I was too tired to feel it anymore.
And this morning, I felt even worse than tired.
I woke up dizzy. My stomach kept turning. I couldn't stand the smell of his cologne. I threw up twice before noon and tried to convince myself it was food poisoning. A virus. Anything but what I knew deep down was the truth.
I found a test hidden in the back of the medicine drawer. I stared at it for fifteen minutes before I touched it.
And when I saw the two lines, I broke.
I collapsed on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, curled into myself, and cried so hard I nearly choked.
I begged. I pleaded. I whispered a hundred times under my breath:
"Please, God. Please don't let it be a girl."
Not because I didn't want to love her.
But because I knew I would never be able to protect her.
Because I'd watch her be born into a cage I already knew too well. I'd raise her with fear clutched in my throat. I'd be forced to smile as her world shrank around her. I'd have to let her live what I lived, and I'd never be able to stop it.
And if I did try?
They'd take her from me.
Just like they took me from myself.
I sat on the bathroom floor for over an hour, rocking back and forth, silent tears streaming down my face. I was still holding the test when the door creaked open.
Noah stood there.
I didn't look at him.
I didn't have the strength.
"Is that what I think it is?" he asked.
I stayed quiet.
"Layla," he said, stepping forward. "You're pregnant?"
I nodded slowly. I don't know why. I guess it didn't matter.
"Well," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time."
He kissed the top of my head like I was some kind of prize.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe.
"You'll be a great mother," he said, his voice full of pride.
And in that moment, I felt like I died all over again.