The kitchen lights were on. Helena and Raúl—his parents—sat at the table like they were waiting for a show: coffee cups in front of them, plates empty, faces expectant. Nora, Víctor’s sister, leaned against the counter with her phone raised, recording openly, like this humiliation was content. Helena’s eyes dragged over me with disgust that didn’t bother to hide itself. “Look at her,” she said with a thin smile. “She thinks carrying a baby makes her special.” Her gaze lingered on my belly as if it offended her. “So slow. So clumsy. Víctor, you’re far too soft on her.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Víctor replied instantly, and then he aimed all of that obedience at me like a weapon. “Did you hear that? Faster. Eggs, bacon, pancakes. And don’t burn them like you always do.”
My hands trembled as I opened the refrigerator. The light inside felt too bright, too sharp, and without warning a wave of dizziness hit—violent and disorienting. The room tilted. My ears rang. I reached for the counter but my fingers met air. The floor rushed up and the impact knocked the breath out of me. Pain exploded through my hip and thigh, and I curled instinctively, both arms wrapped around my stomach, terror hammering in my chest.
“What an exaggeration,” Raúl growled from the table. “Get up!”
I tried. My body didn’t respond. Víctor sighed like I’d inconvenienced him, then walked to the corner of the kitchen. I saw the stick before my mind could fully accept it—thick, wooden, familiar, something he’d used before for what he liked to call “discipline.” “I told you to get up!” he roared, and the blow landed on my thigh. White-hot pain ripped through me and I screamed, curling tighter, shielding my belly with everything I had. Tears poured down my face—uncontrollable, humiliating—while Helena laughed. “She deserves it,” she said. “Hit her again. She needs to learn her place.”
“Please,” I sobbed, “please—the baby—”
“Is that all you care about?” Víctor shouted. “You don’t respect me!” He raised the stick again, and time slowed into a sick, stretched-out silence.
My phone was on the floor a few feet away. It must have slipped from my pocket when I fell. The screen was cracked, but still lit, and in that tiny glow I felt something I hadn’t felt in months: hope—desperate, fragile, but real. I lunged.