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

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Victor saw me as a person, as a problem, as an obstacle, as something that should be corrected with shouts and control.

—“Get up, you useless cow!”— he shouted, tearing off the sheets, reducing my humanity to a word that hurt more than any physical blow.

I was six months pregnant, but at that moment, my body was not a refuge of life, but a battlefield where fear and survival fought without respite.

I tried to sit up, but the pain in my back and the weight in my belly reminded me that every movement was a negotiation with suffering.

—“It hurts… I can’t move fast”— I whispered, my voice breaking, waiting for the slightest sign of empathy that finally arrived.

He laughed, and that laugh was worse than any insult, because it was devoid of humanity, full of learned contempt.

—“Other women suffer and don’t complain”— she replied, as if pain were a competition and I was deliberately losing.

I went down the stairs leaning against the wall, each step a humiliation, each breath a struggle to keep my feet up because of the baby I was carrying inside.