“My husband hit me while I was pregnant, and his parents laughed… but they didn’t know that a single text message would destroy everything.”

 

I was six months pregnant when, at five in the morning, all hell broke loose.

 

The bedroom door slammed against the wall. Victor, my husband, stormed in like a whirlwind. No greeting. No warning.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Get up, you useless cow!” he yelled, tearing the sheets off me. “Do you think being pregnant makes you a queen? My parents are starving!”

 

I struggled to my feet. My back burned, and my legs trembled.

 

“It hurts… I can’t move fast,” I whispered.

 

Victor laughed contemptuously.

“Other women suffer and don’t complain! Stop acting like a princess. Go downstairs and cook now!”

 

Limping, I went to the kitchen. Downstairs, Helena and Raúl, his parents, were sitting at the table. His sister Nora was there too, phone in hand, openly recording me.

 

“Look at her,” Helena said with a cruel smile. “She thinks carrying a baby makes her special. Slow, clumsy… Víctor, you’re too soft on her.”

 

“Sorry, Mom,” he replied, then looked at me. “Did you hear that? Faster! Eggs, bacon, pancakes. And don’t burn them like you always do.”

I opened the refrigerator, but a wave of dizziness washed over me. The cold floor met me as I collapsed.

 

“How dramatic,” Raúl growled. “Get up!”

 

Víctor didn’t help me. He walked to a corner and picked up a thick wooden stick.

 

“I told you to get up!” he roared.

 

The blow landed on my thigh. I screamed. I curled up, protecting my stomach.

 

“She deserves it,” Helena laughed. “Hit her again. She needs to learn her place.”

 

“Please… the baby…” I begged, crying.

“Is that all you care about?” Victor raised the stick again. “You have no respect for me!”

 

I saw my phone on the ground, a few feet away. I lunged for it.