My marriage to Leo had devolved into a masterclass in domestic servitude within a year of our wedding. Before the ring, Leo was charming, ambitious, and seemingly devoted. But the moment the ink dried on our marriage certificate, the mask slipped. When we found out I was pregnant, the mask was discarded entirely.
He moved his mother in “to help with the transition.” Instead of a grandmotherly presence, Helen became the warden, and Leo became her eager, cruel lieutenant. Every day was a grueling schedule of manual labor, complicated meals, and impossible standards. I was expected to manage the household like a Victorian scullery maid while carrying his child.
I pushed myself up from the floor, my knees aching against the hard wood. I reached for the heavy bucket, intending to carry it to the kitchen sink to refresh the water.
As I lifted, my body finally hit its breaking point.
A sharp, agonizing tearing sensation ripped through my lower abdomen. It wasn’t a dull ache or a Braxton Hicks contraction. It felt as though a hot knife had been dragged horizontally across my womb.