CHAPTER ONE:

I remember standing on the platform of the train station, my stomach—round with new life—felt heavier than usual. I knew better than to argue, but that day, my words slipped out before I could stop them. Then came the hit. A blur of pain, shock, and the gasps of strangers around us. I remember being choked and yelled at, in confusion of how things went left so fast. This random guy who was waiting for the train as well jumped into the fight, putting my abuser into a headlock to prevent him from further fighting on me. In that state of mind I argued with the guy that I was okay, I felt like I did something wrong, I pleaded that things were fine and that he could let him go. The guy staired at me in disbelief for he just watched me be assaulted, pregnant and defenseless against my abuser.

Even as the red and blue lights flashed around us, as officers pulled him away, I wanted to scream: “It’s not what it looks like!” Because for so long, I had convinced myself that his anger was love. That if I could just be better, quieter, smaller, he wouldn’t have to hurt me. And when they put him in handcuffs, the weight of his actions wasn’t on him—it was on me. I was the one who let it get this far. I was the one who failed.

It took me years to realize the truth: I was never to blame. Love doesn’t leave bruises. Love doesn’t make you afraid to speak. And if you’re reading this, carrying the same shame I once did, I need you to know—you are not alone, and you are not at fault. This is just the beginning of my story. And if you’re ready, I hope you’ll walk this journey with me.