Chapter 3: The Abuse
The wounds that had once lived quietly inside her began to bloom on her skin.
At first, she still told herself it was love. He still provided, didn’t he? He still came home. Still spoke to her—when he chose to. But bruises do not lie, no matter how carefully they are hidden. And it was her cohort mates who noticed first.
They were young, just like her. Too young to understand the weight of violence, too unsure of where to turn. But they knew enough to be afraid.
“What happened to you?” her friend cried out, reaching for her hoodie. “What is that bruise on your face?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly, brushing her friend’s hands away. Her voice trembled despite her effort. “I—I fell down the stairs.”
“No.” Another friend stepped closer, her voice rising. “No, look at this. THIS?” She tugged the hoodie down before she could stop her. “This is not from falling down the stairs. And this?”
Her face and shoulders were exposed—dark, swollen, unmistakable. The room fell silent.
The night before, he had slapped her for something so small it barely registered in her memory. She had forgotten to wash his coffee cup before leaving for class. The blow came without warning, hard enough to knock her off balance. She hit the floor, stunned, trying to understand what she had done wrong.
Before she could stand, he grabbed her arm and yanked her up, shoving her into the wall. Her head struck hard. The world spun. She crumpled against the opposite wall, breathless, aching, terrified.
And still—still—she could not imagine leaving.
She believed it was her fault. If she hadn’t made a mistake, he wouldn’t have been angry. If she had tried harder, he wouldn’t have hurt her. So she became careful. Painfully careful. Every step, every word, every movement measured.
For a while, he softened.
He praised her for being a “good wife.” Took her out for late-night suppers again. Laughed like he used to. The man she had fallen in love with resurfaced just long enough to convince her that she was right all along—that the violence was only a reaction, not his nature.
She clung to that illusion desperately.
A year passed.
Then she found out she was pregnant.
Hope surged through her like the rare coolness that follows a long, humid day. This would change everything. Surely it would. A child would make him gentle again. A family would make him stay kind. She was radiant with joy, barely able to contain it as she told him the news.
His response shattered her.
“Whose baby is it?” he sneered. “It’s not mine.”
The words echoed in her ears, hollow and cruel. How could he say that? He was all she had. Her husband. Her home. Her entire world. The accusation cut deeper than any slap.
From then on, the list of demands grew longer.
Cooking was no longer enough. He made her wash clothes by hand, squatting on the cold toilet floor, scrubbing until her fingers burned. He took money from her part-time job, insisting she owed him for living under his roof. What little independence she had left was stripped away piece by piece.
The shouting worsened. The grabbing became rougher.
At nine weeks, she miscarried.
He met her at the hospital. She was numb, hollowed out by grief and pain. She waited—longed—for comfort. For an embrace. For words that might stitch her back together.
Instead, he handed her a cigarette.
No hug. No apology. No sorrow.
That night, he took her out for a meal, as if there was something to celebrate. And even then—even then—she told herself he loved her. Because believing anything else meant facing a truth she wasn’t ready to survive.
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