The first time it happened...It didn't feel real. I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at the blood like my brain just refused to connect what I was seeing to what it meant. I kept telling myself it was normal. Maybe this happened sometimes. Maybe I was overreacting.
That maybe... everything was still okay. It wasn't. The doctor said it gently. Too the gently. Like soft words could make something like that hurt less.
"It happens more often than people think."
"We'll try again."
"You're still young."
Try again. Like I didn't just lose something. It's in the process. Daniel held me that night. Told me it was okay. That we'd have another chance. That it didn't change anything. And I believed him. I needed to. The second time...hurt more. Because now I knew what it meant. There was no confusion. No denial. Just the sinking feeling in my chest the moment something felt off. The cramps. The fear. The quiet panic I didn't say out loud. And then...the same ending. This time, I cried harder. Longer. Ugly crying.
The kind where your body feels like it's breaking from the inside out. Daniel wasn't as gentle that time. He still comforted me...But it felt different. Shorter. Less patient. Like he was already tired of something I didn't even understand yet. By the third miscarriage...something between us shifted. We didn't talk about it the same anymore. There were no soft reassurance and No "we'll try again" said with the same warmth.
Just silence. Heavy. Uncomfortable. I started noticing the way he looked at me. Not with concern. Not with love. But with something else. Something colder. Something that made my stomach turn every time our eyes met.
"You sure you're taking care of yourself?" he asked one night. The tone was not concerned. More of an accusation.
"I am"
I said quietly.
He scoffed.
"Doesn't look like it."
That was the first time it felt like blame. Not shared grief. Not "we lost something." But you did. By the fourth...everything fell apart. There was no pretending anymore. No soft edges left to hold onto. Just raw, ugly truth sitting between us. That's when he started putting his hands on me. It didn't start big. It never does. A shove. A grab that lasted too long. Fingers digging into my arm just a little harder than necessary.
Things that could be explained away if I wanted to lie to myself bad enough. And I did. At first. But then it escalated.
"You can't even keep a fucking baby inside you," he snapped one night, pacing the room like I had personally done something to him. I froze. Not because I hadn't thought it myself...But because it felt different out loud.
"You know how fucking embarrassing that is?"
Each word came sharper. Meaner. More intentional.
"I married you thinking we were gonna build something. What the fuck is this?"
I couldn't even respond. Because what do you say when someone throws your deepest fear in your face like that?
"I'm trying," I whispered.
"Trying?" he laughed.
"Ain't shit working, so what exactly are you trying?"
And then...He hit me. It wasn't the hardest he ever would. But it was the first. And somehow...That made it worse. Because in that moment, something in me knew-This doesn't go back from here. After that, everything blurred together. Loss. Pain. Fear. Silence.
And the worst part? I didn't know if it was me anymore. I didn't know if my body was failing...Or if he was breaking it. Every time I lost another pregnancy, the same question echoed in my head-Did I lose it...Or did he take it from me? And I never asked. Never told the doctors. Never told anyone. Because saying it out loud would've made it real. And if it was real...then everything I built my life around was a lie. So I stayed quiet, And I stayed with him. Even when I should've left.
After a while...You stop reacting. Not because it hurts less. But because reacting makes it worse. I learned that quickly. Every look mattered. Every word mattered. Every tone mattered. It didn't take much to set him off anymore. Sometimes it wasn't even something I did. Sometimes it was just... how he felt that day. And I had to adjust around it. I started paying attention to things I never used to notice. The way he closed the door when he walked in. How hard he dropped his keys. Whether he spoke right away... or stayed quiet too long. Those little things told me everything I needed to know. If I should speak. If I should stay quiet. If I should stay out of his way completely.
Home stopped feeling like somewhere I could relax. It became something I had to read. A space I had to survive. I kept my head down more. Spoke less. Stopped correcting him. Stopped questioning him. Stopped even defending myself. Because defending myself didn't protect me. It provoked him. So I learned to shrink. "Yes." "Okay." "Alright." Those became my safest words. Short. Neutral. Non-threatening. I watched how I moved. Didn't slam doors. Didn't walk too heavy. Didn't take too long doing anything that might irritate him.
Even breathing felt like something I had to control sometimes. And the crazy part? After a while...It started to feel normal. That's what scared me the most. Because I wasn't just surviving him anymore. I was adapting to him. At the shop, I was still me. Or at least... a version of me. Smiling. Talking. Running things like I always did. Nobody could tell. Nobody ever can.
"Girl, you look tired."
"You working too much?"
I'd laugh it off.
"Yeah, just busy."
Busy.
That was easier than the truth. Because the truth wasn't something you just casually said out loud. The truth was...I was living two completely different lives. One where I was in control. And one where I had none. And somehow...I was holding both together at the same time. Barely.
I stopped looking at myself in the mirror for too long. Because if I did...I started noticing things. The way I held tension in my shoulders. The way my eyes didn't look as bright anymore. The way I hesitated before speaking-even when I was alone. Like I didn't trust my own voice anymore. That's when it really hit me. Not in a loud, dramatic way. Just... quietly. I wasn't the same person anymore. The girl who built something from nothing...who planned her life step by step...who knew exactly what she wanted-She was still there. Somewhere. But she wasn't in control anymore. And the longer I stayed...The harder it felt to find her again.