I moved out with nothing but a suitcase full of clothes and memories that felt heavier than any luggage could be. The city behind me disappeared, swallowed by distance, but the weight of what I had carried—the betrayal, the shame, the seven years—followed me like a shadow I couldn't shake.
And then I found out.
I was pregnant.
Again.
The news hit me like a storm I had been expecting but was still unprepared for. My mind raced, a chaotic mix of fear, anger, and disbelief. I had already sacrificed so much for him—already given him pieces of me that I could never get back. Twice before, I had ended pregnancies because of this same selfish man. Twice before, I had felt the knife of loss, the hollow emptiness of a choice that was not truly mine.
And now, here I was, alone again. No partner. No steady income. No safety net. A tiny room that wasn't even fully mine yet. I had moved into temporary accommodation, a small space that I could barely call home, and yet it had become the stage for my most intimate fears.
I cried first. Silent tears that soaked my pillow, tears that were too heavy to call for help. I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone to see the shame, the helplessness, the pattern repeating itself one more time.
The truth was brutal. I had loved someone who didn't deserve it. I had trusted him with my body, with my heart, with my future, and he had given me nothing in return except betrayal. And yet, here I was, paying the price once more.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling as I traced the line of my stomach, imagining the life that could have been. I remembered the other two pregnancies—the fear, the heartache, the surgical rooms that smelled sterile and cruel. I remembered the relief afterward, mixed with guilt, shame, and the quiet, aching knowledge that I had made these choices alone, again and again, for a man who could not, and would not, be counted on.
I didn't know how I would do this. How I could survive another heartbreak layered on top of everything else. I didn't have a job, only promises to myself that I would find one, that I would build a life that wasn't dictated by his selfishness. My apartment wasn't even fully mine yet; I was borrowing stability while trying to create it. And now this—another life tied to the man who had never loved me fully.
Anger flared. Sharp, hot, almost violent. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to throw the walls of my tiny apartment, to shake the air until he felt the weight of what he had done. But he wasn't here. He never was. He had never been. And I realized that no amount of rage could fix the past, could fix him, could fix the repeated errors of seven years of my life.
I lay back, exhausted, and let myself remember the moments of fleeting joy I had once felt with him. The mornings when he made me coffee just the way I liked it. The soft kisses that had seemed like promises. The laughter that had made me feel alive. And then I remembered the nights when he was absent, when I bled quietly inside, when I begged for attention and got none. And finally, I remembered the betrayals—the times he cheated, the friend who had become the wedge between us, the countless instances when I had felt invisible in my own life.
I realized something: this pregnancy was mine. Not his. Not his fault. Not a symbol of his selfishness. It was a part of me, and I had to decide what to do with it for myself.
But the decision was crushing. How could I bring life into this chaos? How could I care for another being when I was barely keeping myself together? How could I endure the physical, emotional, and financial weight of raising a child when I had nothing secure beneath me?
And yet, even as fear and despair clawed at me, a strange resilience began to grow. I had survived so much already. I had survived seven years of giving, waiting, and being used. I had survived betrayal, humiliation, and abandonment. I had survived leaving the city, leaving family, leaving friends, leaving the man I had loved blindly.
This time, I would survive too.
I didn't know exactly how. I didn't know exactly what the next steps were. But I knew I had to prioritize myself—my safety, my mental health, my future. I began to think about work, about building stability, about creating a life where no one could ever hold my choices over me again.
I thought of the other two pregnancies, and the pain of those decisions. And I realized I had to make the next decision with clarity, not fear, not shame, not obligation. For the first time, it wouldn't be for him. It wouldn't be for anyone else. It would be for me.
I cried again, letting the tears fall freely this time, not hidden, not silent. I let myself grieve the past, the loss, the repeated errors, the heartbreak. I let myself feel the fear of what was to come, and I let myself feel a flicker of hope. Not for him, not for love, not for validation—but for survival, for independence, for reclaiming myself in a life that had been stolen too many times.
I looked around the small, temporary room that I now called home. It was barely mine. But it was a start. It was a shelter from the storm. And as I lay back on the narrow bed, I made a silent promise to myself: I would get through this. I would take control of my life. I would protect myself. I would not let the errors of the past dictate the rest of my life.
For the first time in seven years, the loops felt broken.
And even though I was scared, even though I was alone, even though I had nothing but uncertainty and an apartment that wasn't even fully mine yet, I knew one truth: I would survive. I would endure. And one day, I would reclaim everything he had taken from me, starting with myself.