“My husband hit me while I was pregnant as his parents laughed… but they didn’t know one message would destroy everything.”

I tried to sit up, but pain shot through my lower back, sharp enough to steal my breath. My legs trembled as I swung my feet to the floor and the room tilted slightly. “It hurts,” I whispered. “I can’t move fast.” I wasn’t asking for sympathy. I was asking for time. Víctor laughed—not loud, not wild, but controlled, practiced, the laugh of someone who enjoyed the imbalance of power. “Other women hurt and don’t complain,” he said. “Stop acting like a princess. Get downstairs and cook—now.” Then he turned away like I was a task he’d already checked off.

I stood slowly, one hand pressed to the wall for balance. Everything about movement felt exaggerated, like my body no longer belonged to me. The stairs loomed ahead—steep, unforgiving—and I took them one at a time with my fingers locked around the railing, breathing shallowly so the pain didn’t flare too hard.