It was a Saturday morning. I was around eight years old. Still small, still soft, still someone who believed in family, in goodness, in being safe. We were visiting my dad’s brother for the long weekend. I remember being excited to go somewhere new. I thought this was going to be a break, something fun. The adults went out, left us kids behind. My cousin, the oldest, was in charge. He was so sweet then. Before everything. Before the damage. Before the monster beneath the smile showed its face. He made me feel like I belonged. While the others shoved me aside, he pulled me in. Made me feel wanted. Seen. That day, the others were mean to me again. I don’t remember why. I just remember running inside and crying in a corner, quietly, like I always did. He followed me. Knelt next to me. Asked if I wanted to help him in the garage. Said it was important. And just like that, my tears dried. That flicker of hope returned. Maybe this time I wouldn’t be pushed away. I followed him. We sat on the floor, building a wire car. He smiled. Spoke softly. Then came the strange questions. “Can you keep a secret?” I nodded. Of course I did. I wanted to belong. I wanted to be chosen. He said I was becoming beautiful. I blushed. I smiled. I didn’t understand. Then he asked me to prove it. Told me to lift my dress so he could see how I was changing. My body went still. He helped me up, whispering that it was okay, that it would feel good. He lifted my dress. I said, “I don’t like this.” He said, “Trust me.” Then he pulled down my underwear. And touched me. I froze. It didn’t feel good. It felt wrong. I tried to speak, but he gently placed his hand over my mouth. Then the pain got worse. He pushed me down. Said I had to return the favor. I didn’t understand. He pulled down his pants. Told me to use my mouth. I said no. He wasn’t gentle anymore. He shoved me so hard I couldn’t breathe. I remember gasping, like I was drowning. Then came the worst pain of my life. He forced himself inside me. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. When he was done, I walked to the bathroom like a ghost. Blood ran down my legs. Warm. Thick. Horrifying. That was the first time. Later that day, it happened again. And again. By the end of the weekend, it had happened more than five times. I told someone. I told my dad. He looked at me like I was the one who did something wrong. He shouted. Accused me of lying. My mother looked at me like I’d shamed us all. And my cousin? He smiled. He kept being sweet to me. Even after the rapes. He would stroke my hair and call me special. Then when he has a moment alone with me, he would do it again. And somehow, I started believing maybe this was just what love looked like. I stopped crying eventually. Not because it stopped hurting. It never stopped. But because the tears did nothing. I started cutting at ten. Because I needed to feel something I chose. Something I could control. I learned to hide everything. I smiled when I had to. Laughed when I was supposed to. Stayed dry-eyed. Stayed quiet. But I was bleeding inside. Every single day. The little girl I was, died in that garage. And no one noticed. That’s where my life split in two, the before and the after. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again.

I was eleven. Too young to feel so old. Too small to carry a world that kept crushing me every time I tried to breathe. But I had already lived a hundred lives in silence by then. Already learned how to break without making a sound. The weekend before, we had another family gathering. Another act in the long play of pretending. Laughter in the air, fake smiles on faces, food passed around like everything was normal. But he was there. The cousin. The monster with gentle hands. He did what he always did, smiled at everyone, then used me like I was his favorite toy. Like I belonged to him. And no one noticed. Or maybe they did. Maybe it was easier not to. That following weekend, I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just walked to the bathroom quietly, like I had done a thousand times before. This time, I ran a bath. Warm water. Soft steam rising like it could wash the ache from my bones. I took the blade, the same one I had been using to feel anything I could control, and I dragged it across both my wrists. Deep enough to matter. Quiet enough not to be found. And for the first time in years, I felt peace. Not fear. Not guilt. Not shame. Just silence. Just weightlessness. Just… finally. I remember how my body sank into the warmth. How the water hugged me. How my blood mixed with the stillness like a whispered goodbye. I felt tired. So, so tired. And then everything went dark. I don’t remember the door opening. I don’t remember being lifted out. But I remember waking up, and I wished I hadn’t. The hospital lights were too bright. Too white. Too cold. My dad was there. Yelling. Panicking. Saying things like, “What were you thinking?” “Why would you do this?” “How could you?” But never once did he say, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” “What happened to you?” “Who hurt you?” They talked about a care facility. Said I needed help. Said I was unstable. Said this wasn’t normal. But no one asked why. I begged them not to send me away. I promised I’d be okay. I smiled through cracked lips and broken promises. Because I knew, even in that sterile room, even with bandaged wrists and hollow eyes, they only saw what they wanted to see. A troubled child. A dramatic phase. A family embarrassment. Not the shattered girl who bled in silence. Not the child who was raped and told it was love. Not the little girl who wanted to live… but couldn’t find a reason to. So I went home. Back to the pretending. Back to being good and quiet and invisible. And they never brought it up again. But I still remember the water. Still remember how peaceful it felt when I thought it might finally be over. Still remember wishing he hadn’t found me. Because waking up didn’t feel like survival. It felt like a sentence. And no one, not even the ones who were supposed to protect me, ever noticed I was dying long before the blood touched the water..

I was thirteen. Still a child, but already carrying lifetimes of pain. The abuse hadn’t stopped. My cousin, the one who stole everything, continued to take from me. Again. And again. And again. And I let him. Not because I wanted to. But because I didn’t know how to stop it anymore. Because I had learned that screaming didn’t help. That telling the truth got me punished, not protected. At school, things were no better. I was born with a condition called "psoriasis", a chronic autoimmune disease that causes the skin to develop dry, scaly patches. It’s not life threatening. But it is uncomfortable. And visible. And children don’t need a reason to be cruel. They pointed. They laughed. They whispered. Sometimes I felt like a walking wound. But I had one friend, my best friend. And in a world that constantly hurt, she was my breath of air. She made things feel a little more bearable, even when everything inside me was falling apart. That was the year I met him. The guy who would later become my husband. We met on at my moms sister's house, talking, joking, spending hours just being young peoplr who understood each other. He was kind. Curious. Funny. I told him everything. I don’t know why. Maybe because he didn’t look away when I shared the ugly parts. Maybe because he didn’t treat me like I was broken beyond repair. When I told him about my cousin, his first reaction was rage. He wanted to kill him. To protect me. But he stayed out of it, because what could we do? We were to young, trying to survive a world that didn’t listen. Then the unthinkable happened. I missed a period. Then another. I was pregnant. With my cousin’s baby. I remember the stillness that followed. The way the world felt like it had stopped turning. I remember telling him, my friend, the guy who would become my everything and watching his face fall in a way I’ll never forget. We didn’t cry. We planned. It was the only thing we could do. We ran away to a town where his family lived. It wasn’t a grand escape, no money, no plan, just desperation and fear disguised as courage. I carried the baby to full term. Quietly. In hiding. In shame. In silence. And then I gave birth. A C-section. A boy. My son. A piece of me and a piece of a monster. I didn’t even get to hold him for long. He was taken away for adoption. It was what we agreed on. What we thought was best. But he was still mine. And when he left… something inside me cracked in a way that never healed. I gave him away to protect him from the pain of where he came from. But sometimes, in the quiet moments, I wonder who he is now. If he has my eyes. If he laughs like me. If he feels a hole in his heart and doesn’t know why. My parents still don’t know. They never knew I was pregnant. They never knew I gave birth. They never knew I gave away a piece of myself in the name of survival. Only my husband knew. He stayed by my side. He promised he’d always believe me. He held my hand through the storm and told me I wasn’t ruined. And I believed him. He was the only one who ever saw me fully. Or… so I thought. But that’s a different story. And this one ends with a goodbye I never got to say, To someone they’ll never know about. My boy.

I was seventeen. Married, or something like it. We had survived everything. The pain, the secrets, the running. It felt like a win. Like maybe the worst was over. We laughed. We built a life. Sunshine and rainbows, right? And I didn’t see my cousin anymore. That alone felt like a kind of peace. We did everything together. Until one day, we didn’t. I don’t know when it happened exactly, or how, or why. But I remember the first time I noticed. We were at a friend gathering. Everyone was drinking, laughing, being loud. I didn’t drink, I never really did. I just sat there, watching him down one beer after another, laughing too loud, eyes glossed over. When the guests left, he wasn’t done. He wanted more. He wanted to leave. But he was drunk, too drunk, and I was terrified. Not just for him, but for the strangers out on the road. Innocent people who could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. So I took the car keys and hid them. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought he’d thank me in the morning. But he couldn’t find the keys. And he got angry. For the first time ever… he got scary. His words slurred, sharp like broken glass. I turned around to walk away, not wanting to argue. But he grabbed me by the hair, hard, yanked me back. “Listen when I talk to you,” he growled. I was stunned. Frozen. But still, I didn’t tell him where the keys were. That’s when I saw it, that flash in his eyes. Not confusion. Not frustration. But rage. And then came the sharp pain across my face. It landed so fast I didn’t even process it at first. Until I was on the floor. He slapped me. Then kicked me. Then left. I don’t remember where he went. I don’t remember how long he was gone. I just remember sitting there, curled on the floor, with my face burning and my heart broken in a whole new way. The one person who had made me feel safe, the one who knew everything about me, my past, my boy, now made me feel scared. It didn’t stop there. The first time became the second. The second turned into too many. And I stayed. Because he knew. Because I had nowhere else to go. Because I thought I was too broken for anything better. Because I had no one. Because I was afraid. So I made myself smaller. Quieter. I smiled when I had to. Lied when I had to. And somewhere deep inside… I began to disappear again. I still don't know why he changed, but I wonder everyday if I was the one who changed him...

It was still the same year. The same year of bruises and silence. Of being hit, and then held by the same hands the next day, as if nothing ever happened. Because when he drank, he became someone else. And when he sobered up, he forgot. Or pretended to. Then he lost his job. The company shut down. And just like that, the little life we were holding together fell apart. We lost the house. He reached out to an old friend, someone older, who offered help, a place to stay, even a job for him. The only condition? That I leave school. Stay home. Clean. Cook. Keep everything neat. So I did. Because what choice did I have? Every day, I took care of that house like it was a second skin, laundry folded, yard trimmed, meals ready. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours. A kind of stability. Until the night it wasn’t. My husband worked night shifts. That first night I was alone in the house, the friend’s grown son was visiting but already asleep. I went to the bathroom to take a shower. The door opened. He walked in. No knock. No warning. Just him, standing there. Watching me. I grabbed a towel, tried to cover myself. He didn’t say a word. Just stared. It happened again. And again. I told my husband. He said maybe it was just an accident. So I adjusted. I started timing my showers to when he wasn’t home. I made myself smaller, quieter, careful. But monsters always find a crack in the wall. Another night. My husband gone again. I woke up to a strange feeling. Something brushing against my leg. I opened my eyes… and he was there. Standing over me. My blanket had been pulled off. His hand was under my nightdress, moving slowly. And I thought, Not again. Not this time. Not me. I got up, heart racing, and walked past him. Just needed to get out of that room. I went to the kitchen to get water. The clock said it was just past 2am. I turned around. And there he was again. But this time, I couldn’t get away. I tried. I begged. He didn’t care. He grabbed me. Forced himself onto me. Into me. And suddenly I was eight again. Then eleven. All the pain I thought I buried came crashing back. I fought. I reached out and shoved a glass off the counter. It shattered across the floor, loud, sharp, desperate. It worked. His son came running into the kitchen. He saw. He pulled his father off me. Yelled at me to run. Told me to wait in the bathroom. I did. I closed the door and sat on the floor, shaking. Then, a knock. Soft. Gentle. “I called your husband,” he said. “He’s on his way.” He asked if he could come in, just to check if I was okay. And even though I was scared of everything in that house, I said yes. Because I needed something. Someone. He hugged me. Held me tight. I bled on his shirt. He didn’t let go. When my husband arrived, the son told him what happened. Told him we needed to go to the hospital. My husband didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak to me. Didn’t touch me. I needed him more than I’d ever needed anyone. But he gave me nothing. At the hospital, they admitted me. Ran tests. Took photos. Wrote notes. I remember a nurse looking at me and going pale. “You’re torn,” she said softly. “Badly.” I was broken. Inside and out. They told me the damage was permanent. That I’d never be able to carry a child again. That something had been taken I couldn’t get back. The son, the only light in that nightmare, pressed charges. He testified against his own father. He chose me. I never saw him again. I never found out what happened in court. If justice came. If it mattered. But I remember that moment, the way he held me when no one else would. The way he believed me. The way he chose my truth over blood. My husband? He blamed me. Said I led men on. Said I used body language like a weapon. Said the rape was my fault. That maybe I wanted it. That maybe it always was me. But he wasn’t there at 2am. He didn’t see the monster's hands. He didn’t feel the pain. Or hear the silence afterward. He wasn’t the one who lost everything, again. I still bleed, just not where anyone can see. But I remember the boy who saved me. The one flicker of kindness inside a hell I never deserved. And I hope he’s okay. I hope he knows I still remember. I will always remember

After everything that happened… After being raped by someone who was supposed to be a friend, After my husband blamed me for it, again After he hit me like I was nothing more than a punching bag he didn’t know how to put down, After my parents kept pretending they didn’t see me breaking, After the world became too loud, too cruel, too much... I lost my last thread of hope. Then I got the message. My best friend, the one light I had left from school She was gone. She had taken her own life. And something inside me broke in half. It felt like the universe was giving me permission. So I made a decision: If she could find peace… maybe I could too. That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t write a note. I didn’t pray. I just found the rope. I walked out into the yard. Found the tallest tree I could Because if I was going to do it, it had to work. No more waking up in hospital rooms. No more half attempts. No more failure. I tied the rope. Tight. Secure. Tossed it over the branch like I had done it a hundred times in my mind. Made the knot. Wrapped it around my neck. Took one last look at the sky. Then I jumped. And pain. God, it hurt. It wasn’t numb or soft or peaceful like the bathwater had been. It burned. My lungs screamed. My vision blurred. My feet kicked the air, desperate for ground that didn’t exist. I clawed at the rope. Tried to get it off. Tried to change my mind. But it was too late. I started fading. And I made peace with it. Let go. *Maybe this is how it ends,* I thought. *Maybe this is mercy.* But the universe had other plans. Because suddenly — it snapped. The rope broke in two. And I hit the ground so hard it rattled my bones. I lay there stunned, gasping, crying without sound. Not just from the pain, but from the rage. I couldn’t even do this right. I couldn’t even die properly. I failed at living. And I failed at leaving. I curled into myself, sobbing into the dirt. The world didn’t want me. But it wouldn’t let me go either. That night, I made a silent vow: *I will never try to take my own life that way again.* Not because I suddenly wanted to live. But because I couldn’t take the feeling of failing at something so final. The tree stood over me like a witness. The broken rope like a reminder. And me? I stayed. Shattered. Ashamed. Still breathing. But not whole. Not yet.

It was a new year. I didn’t hope for anything. Not joy. Not miracles. Not peace. Because let’s be honest — nothing good ever stayed. If it came, it left just as quickly. A flicker. A tease. A cruel joke. So I stopped expecting. I woke up. I breathed. I existed. No purpose for living. No success in dying. No friends. No one to talk to. Just… surviving. And miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage. Each one carved another hole in me. Each one felt like my body betraying me. Like life laughing at the idea that I could ever hold something beautiful. Then it happened again. Two lines on a stick. Pregnant. But this time, I didn’t say a word. No smiles. No hope. No planning. I kept it close, locked away like every other piece of fragile joy. Because I was used to losing everything I loved. But then four months passed. And I was still pregnant. I started gaining weight. Went to the doctor — quietly, carefully — and he told me something I couldn’t believe: “The miscarriage phase is over. Your baby is strong. Healthy. The chance of carrying full term is high.” Something cracked open inside me. Hope. Real, trembling hope. For the first time in forever, I allowed myself to believe. I told my parents. And for the first time in my life, they sounded like they loved me. They cried. They called it their first grandchild. They begged me to move closer, to be near them, to let them love this child. So we did. We packed up everything and moved to their town. My husband struggled to find work, but we got by. The pregnancy went smoothly. Beautifully. Quietly. Then he found a job. In another town. He had to go. And I stayed with my parents. I didn’t mind. I was wrapped in the soft cocoon of my growing belly. I talked to her at night. Played music. Felt her move. I was starting to feel human again. At a routine check-up with a new doctor, one I hadn’t seen before, he told me she was overdue. “We need to induce,” he said. So I went in. Got the induction. Eighteen hours later, No baby. No sign she was coming. But the pain… oh God, the pain. It tore through me like fire. They kept yelling at me to stay still, that they couldn’t find her heartbeat on the monitor. How do you stay still when your body is being ripped apart? Then, finally, another doctor came in. He listened. And then he looked at me with eyes that shattered something inside me. “There’s no heartbeat.” Emergency c-section. Lights. Voices. Cold hands. Scalpel to skin. I didn’t scream. I didn’t speak. I was too numb. Too broken. Too exhausted. And then silence. Not the kind that feels peaceful, But the kind that feels like the whole world just stopped. Ten minutes passed. Ten long, hollow minutes. Then a doctor leaned down to me. “I’m so sorry. She’s a stillborn.” I cried, but calmly. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because I was floating somewhere far away. High on medication, low on hope. I was still cut open. Still bleeding. Still lost. Then a nurse walked in. She didn’t say much. Just took my hand and whispered, “May I?” I nodded. I thought she was coming to take the baby away. But then… I heard it. A cry. A *real* cry. The most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life. Somehow, some miracle, she brought my daughter back. I don’t know what that nurse did. I don’t know how she did it. But my baby *breathed*. She cried. She moved. She lived. And so did I. This isn’t a sad story. This is a glimpse of light when the world feels like it’s collapsing. That day, my life changed. Even just a little. I had something to live for. I *have* something to live for. My beautiful daughter The one who survived the silence, Who brought me back from the edge without even knowing it — She is growing into the most precious, fierce, radiant girl I’ve ever known. She is my savior. My reason. My breath.

Two years later. Two years of trying to breathe through the smoke of what had burned me. Two years of trying to pretend things were better — or at least, not worse. Some good days, yes. But mostly… it was still survival. It was still pretending. Still flinching when the past reached out its hand. But then… I found out I was pregnant again. And everything inside me clenched. Because hope was dangerous. Because I’d lost too many babies. Because I knew the pain of empty arms, of blood on bedsheets, of silence where a cry should’ve been. And I I have a little lady who needed all my attention So I didn’t get excited. Not yet. But this time felt different. Not easier, never that. But different. My body was at war with itself. The hospital became my second home, Admitted, released, admitted again. Week after week, scan after scan, IV after IV. Gallstones. Kidney problems. Liver dysfunction. Pain that made me crawl. Nights I couldn’t breathe. Days I couldn’t eat. My body was falling apart. But my baby? My baby was fine. He was strong. Unbothered. Growing. Like he wasn’t living inside the chaos, Like he was protected by something bigger than my pain. I would lie there, staring at hospital ceilings, wondering how he could be so calm while I was breaking. I watched the monitors, waiting for the moment everything fell apart again, But it never did. He held on. I held on because he did. And because my Little lady needed me And then, finally… the day came. They placed him in my arms, this round, warm, squishy little miracle. So full of life. So full of light. So real. He didn’t cry much. He just snuggled into me like he had been waiting his whole life to be held. And I cried for everything. For the babies I had lost. For the blood I had spilled. For the parts of me that had died just trying to survive. For the way his siter looked at him with Happy loving eyes And for him, The little boy who didn’t break. He came from a place of pain, But he brought nothing but comfort. He wrapped his tiny fingers around my soul and reminded me what it meant to feel soft again. He was my healing. Not my fix. Not my reason for forgetting. But the proof that sometimes, even in the darkest storm, something good can grow. mot once but twice Something strong. Something cuddly. Something beautiful.

Six months after my little boy was born, I started working again. I needed to. My husband had lost his job, and he wasn’t finding another anytime soon. Bills stacked up. Worry tightened around our necks. So I did what I always do when life throws fire, I stepped into it, hoping I wouldn’t burn. And I loved that job. I loved feeling useful. Needed. Seen. But every moment away from my babies tore at me. I missed their tiny voices, their soft hands, their sleepy smiles. Still, I told myself, this is for them. Always for them. Then came the work function. Just one drink, that’s all I had. One drink, then everything went black. I was told later that my husband’s close friend — let’s call him Cup — had offered me a ride home. I never made it inside. The next morning, I woke up confused. Foggy. Empty. My parents had been visiting. They, along with my husband, pulled me out of Cup’s car that night. Unconscious. My back scratched. My hair tangled with grass. My clothes disheveled. My underwear… missing. And I remembered *nothing*. Thank God for that. Because my body already carried too many scars. I didn’t want another memory added to the nightmare reel. Another violation. Another story that would be questioned, blamed, silenced. But then… two months passed. And I found out I was pregnant. Again. I was terrified. Our son was still so small. My body was barely recovered. My mind wasn’t ready. My husband panicked. Said it was too soon. Said the child couldn’t be his. And I didn’t argue. We decided to end it. An appointment was made. I cried, quietly, the night before. But something inside me screamed. And we canceled it. We chose her. And it was the best decision I ever made. Months passed. Then came the accident — a car crash with Cup’s wife, who had ironically become my best friend by then. I was six months pregnant. We were shaken, bruised… but somehow, my baby girl was perfectly fine. She came into this world healthy. Whole. Screaming with life. They did a paternity test, my husband demanded it. And the papers said what I already knew deep in my bones: She was his. She was ours. I threw those papers in his face with a fire I didn’t know I still had. Not out of hate. But out of pain. Out of all the times I was doubted, blamed, betrayed. Eventually, we moved again. Into a big house with Cup, his wife, and their daughter. It was messy, chaotic… but sometimes it felt almost like a family. We had good nights. Good days. Laughter echoing down hallways. Music playing in the kitchen. Kids giggling in rooms filled with toys and crumbs. I didn’t work anymore. Not in an office, not for money. But I worked. As a mother. As a housekeeper. As a woman trying to hold herself together while holding everyone else’s world in place. Life wasn’t great. But it was okay. And in a world that kept trying to break me… My children They were the glue. They were the gold in the cracks. They were the reason I smiled through the hurt. And that little girl? The one they said wasn’t his? She became one of the biggest pieces of my heart. A piece I never even knew was missing — until she was here.

It had been eight months since things felt... kind of okay. There was noise in the house. Laughter. Crumbs on the couch. Little feet running down the hallway. My children were being children, wild, free, messy, full of life. And then, everything stopped. My little boy got sick. Really sick. It happened fast. One day he was smiling with sticky hands and shining eyes… And the next, he was in a hospital bed. I sat by his side, every day, every night, for four weeks. Four weeks. In ICU. Watching him sleep beneath tubes and wires. Listening to machines that sounded too loud in the silence. Praying for each breath like it was borrowed. No sign of my husband. No voice on the phone. No help. No comfort. No one. I hadn't seen my daughters in almost a month. And I missed them so much, it hurt like grief. But my boy, he needed me more. Then came the results. The doctor sat down across from me. His eyes heavy. His words, heavier. "I'm afraid your son has cystic fibrosis." Time didn’t stop, it shattered. I couldn’t breathe. My world crumbled around me in the span of a heartbeat. I held it together for four weeks, but not anymore. I fell apart right there in that chair. Panic burst through me like fire, like drowning, like screaming into a void that never answered back. My little boy? Sick? No, no. That couldn’t be. He was perfect. He was strong. He was mine. He had fought so hard to live. How could life be this cruel? I looked at his small body lying there so still, so fragile and I felt something inside me break in a way that never healed. I got angry. Not just at the world, but at God. Why? Why my child? Why give me something so beautiful only to fill his lungs with something that would one day try to take him away? I cursed the skies. I stopped believing. Because how do you hold on to faith when your child is gasping for air, and all you can do is sit there and watch? I felt alone. Terrified. Helpless. But my son he reminded me what strength really looks like. Because even with broken lungs and a future filled with hospitals, he smiled. He woke up. He reached for me. And he smiled. After he was discharged, I took him home with a bag full of medications, an oxygen machine, and a heart still swollen with fear. But I also took home the same brave little boy who looked at the world and said, “not today.” And when I saw my daughters again after four endless weeks I cried. I held them so tightly, like if I let go for even a second, the world might try to take them too. Life isn’t easy now. When my son gets sick, we pack bags and head for the hospital again. The road is long. Exhausting. Unfair. But here’s the miracle no one sees: If you looked at him on any normal day, you’d never know. You’d never guess what his lungs are fighting against. You’d never imagine the war happening inside his small chest. Because he runs, laughs, jumps, dances like the air isn't heavy. My boy is sick. But he is more alive than anyone I’ve ever known. And somehow, even in the darkest moments, he taught me how to breathe again.

It had been a month since my little boy was discharged from the hospital. A month since I held his small hand in the ICU and promised God I’d find peace, if only He would let my son live. And somehow, I did find that peace. I was breathing again. I was surviving again. I was watching my kids laugh and live, and I was learning to do the same. It was a Wednesday night. Cup’s wife had taken their daughter to visit family for the school holidays. My husband was working late. The kids were playing. I was in my room, writing, like I always did. Cup was somewhere in the house, probably doing whatever it was he did when things were quiet. It felt like any other night. Until it wasn’t. I went to the bathroom, something so normal. But before I could close the door, he walked in. I laughed. I thought he was joking, he always had this strange, silly energy about him. It never felt threatening before. But this time was different. He didn’t laugh. He walked closer. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I felt something strange. Not fear — not yet. Just a quiet awkwardness… a shift in the air. He smiled at me. I smiled back, nervous, unsure. Then he leaned in, tried to kiss me. I pulled away. I told him no. I reminded him who he was: my husband’s best friend. My best friend’s husband. He tried again. I stopped him again. I was calm. Kind. I saw the loneliness in him. The brokenness. I felt it like a cold wind in the room. But that didn’t mean I owed him anything. He tried a third time. And that time… when I said no again… he got angry. His hand struck my face so fast I didn’t even flinch until it stung. Then he grabbed my cheeks and forced a kiss I didn’t return. “Please, Cup… don’t do this,” I whispered. But he didn’t stop. He forced himself on me, into me, violently, without care, without soul. It was hard. It was painful. And when he finished, all he said was, “Clean yourself up.” And I did. Because what else was I supposed to do? I sat in that bath for what felt like hours. Scrubbing. Scraping. Crying. Trying to wash away what couldn’t be rinsed off. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t break. Because honestly, by then… I was used to being used. It didn’t even break me in the ways it should’ve. But then I remembered, this time was different. **This was my best friend’s husband.** And I knew I could never tell her. Because how do you tell someone that the man she sleeps next to is a monster? So I did what I always do. I stayed quiet. I dried off. I climbed into bed and waited for my husband. When he walked in, I told him everything. I begged him to believe me. But he didn’t. He told me I was trying to ruin lives. That I was jealous. That I couldn’t stand to see others happy. And so I shrank. I folded into myself. And I floated through the days like a ghost, holding in a scream that no one would have heard anyway. And then it happened again. And again. And again. And I had to face him every single day. Smile. Cook. Clean. Exist. Like I wasn’t being violated in silence. A few months later, my best friend and I had a falling out. Something small turned to something big. We never spoke again. And eventually, we moved away. I thought maybe the nightmare would finally fade. Then we got the call. Cup had died. A heart attack and a stroke all at once. Just like that, he was gone. And I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want him dead. I wanted him to pay. To own what he did. To say “I’m sorry.” To look me in the eyes and admit it. But no. He got the easy way out. He left this world without ever being held accountable. And I was left behind… with silence again. But I survived. And I will keep surviving. Because the dead don’t get to keep stealing from the living.

There comes a time when pain stops cutting and starts rotting, when it no longer screams but whispers, constantly, in the back of your mind. That was where I found myself. My kids were still my world, still the reason I smiled, but even they couldn’t silence the screams in my sleep, or stop the flashbacks that came like lightning in a thunderstorm I couldn’t run from. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them every hand that took what wasn’t theirs, every face that smiled before turning into a monster. And I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t rest. And one night… I decided I wouldn’t wake up. I took the pills. Not one. Not two. All of them. I swallowed them like prayers, not to be saved, but to disappear. And then… I opened my eyes. White light. A hospital ceiling. Pain in my stomach from being pumped. A nurse whispering my name like a question I didn’t want to answer. I survived. Again. But this time, I didn’t go home. They admitted me to a psych facility. A place with quiet halls and broken people like me. I spent a month there. Thirty days of silence, of mirrors, of pills in plastic cups. Thirty days of remembering what I tried to forget. Thirty days of realizing how far I had fallen into a world where dying felt like peace. And while I was there, I found out the truth: **He had been cheating.** For **two years.** With someone close. Someone who smiled at me. Someone who knew me. Someone who knew everything I had survived and didn’t care. It broke something new in me. But what shattered me even more was what didn’t happen: He didn’t cry. He didn’t beg. He didn’t say, “I’m sorry.” He looked at me and smiled. As if none of it mattered. “If you want to leave, then go,” he said. “But you’re not taking my kids with you.” And I said, “Of course I will.” And then he looked me in the eye and said the cruelest thing of all: “You’ll never get them. You have too much baggage. Too many records. Too much pain that counts against you.” And I froze. Because he was right. Not in truth, but in law, in paper, in files and labels. They don’t see the broken woman as the one who survived. They see her as unfit. So I stayed. Not because I forgave him. Not because I loved him. Not because I couldn’t walk. But because I wasn’t willing to walk away without my children. Did he cheat again after that? I don’t know. Maybe. Probably. But honestly? I stopped caring. Because the truth is… He already took everything. There was nothing left for him to steal.

It’s been a while since I tried to take my own life. Not because I’m better. Not because the storm in my head has passed. But because I finally understood, it’s not an escape. It’s not a way out. It’s just another kind of prison. But the pain didn’t leave. The thoughts didn’t fade. So I found something else… Another form of control. I stopped cutting, not because I wanted to but because my eldest walked in. She saw the blood. She saw the blade. She saw me. And in that moment, I saw her. Her eyes, wide with fear. Her little voice, cracking: “Mommy… please stop.” So I promised her, and myself, I’d never do that again. And I didn’t. But I found another way to hurt myself. Quietly. Secretly. A new way to feel like I was in control of something. I started purging. At first, just once or twice a week. Only when I felt “too full,” or too worthless, or too heavy. I told myself it was just to lose a little weight to stop hearing, “You’re so lazy.” “You’ve let yourself go.” “You’re disgusting.” “Fat.” Then it became three times a week. Then once a day. Then three times a day. Until I didn’t even need to force it anymore. My body just… did it. I would eat. Smile. Excuse myself. And then throw it all up. Every single time. And I got skinny. Too skinny. My bones became louder than my voice. My skin sagged like it was ashamed to hold me. People stopped calling me “fat” and started saying, “You look sick.” I was. But no one truly saw. Until I collapsed. Until they admitted me to the hospital, frail and fading. The doctor told me I had to gain 25 kilograms, or they’d start tube feeding. I didn’t want the tube. I didn’t care. Then he said it. **My husband.** He looked at me and said with that same coldness I’d come to expect: “Another thing that’ll count against you one day.” And just like that, I wasn’t human again. I was a court case. A weakness. A burden. I left that hospital shattered… but I fought. God, I fought. Not because I believed in healing but because I remembered my daughter’s voice. Because I remembered her eyes. I battled every single bite of food. Fought through nausea and disgust. Forced myself to eat. Alone. No help. No therapy. No support. Just me… trying to be better for them. I gained the weight. They said I looked “healthier.” But I’ve never hated my body more. Loose skin clings to me like guilt. Like failure. It laughs at me in mirrors. It reminds me of every time I starved to feel enough. But I’m still here. Somehow. Still trying. Still standing. A year later, we moved back to my parents because my so-called husband got a job there. It made sense, they said. It was “better,” they said. But I knew. I knew what they don’t say. I knew how they never ask if I’m okay. I knew how they only care when it’s convenient. They don’t care about me. They never did. But I care about my kids. And maybe, one day, I’ll learn to care about myself again too. Maybe.

It was just another day. Ordinary on the outside like the ones before it, the ones that blur together like grey clouds that never storm, but never let the sun through either. The men in the house my father, my brother, and my husband wore their moods like armor. Heavy. Sharp. Untouchable. They weren’t yelling. Not today. They weren’t throwing things or calling names. They were just quiet. But sometimes… that’s worse. That kind of silence isn’t peaceful it’s loaded. It hangs in the air like a noose. And you learn, over time, to tiptoe through it. My mom, my sister, the kids, and I we were walking on eggshells so fine you could barely see them, but feel them break with every move. No one dared speak too loud. No one dared make a sound that might crack the mask. And my husband… he didn’t drink anymore. Didn’t go out. Didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t hit me. He just… stopped seeing me. Stopped being there, even when he was home. He’d leave town often, for “work,” and I’d be left here dusting the same shelves, folding the same clothes, smiling the same tired smile that fooled no one. I kept praying. To God. To the universe. To anything that might still be listening. “Please bring him back. Not this version of him… but the man I fell in love with. The one who made me feel seen, who stood by me when no one else did.” But that man was gone. He died long before I was ready to let go. I became a ghost in my own life. A shadow in the home I built. A maid with no clock out time, no thanks, no love just duty. I was folding laundry when it happened. Something small sparked the argument. Maybe a missing sock. Maybe I breathed too loud. It doesn’t matter. The fight started the way they always do, sharp words from my father, a slammed door, my voice rising for once, because I was tired. Tired of always being the quiet one. Tired of taking it. And then, he said it. In the middle of the fight, his voice full of fury, he snapped: “I love you like you were my own daughter!” Just like that. Out. Raw. Loud. The world stood still. His face went pale he realized what he had just said. What had slipped out. He turned and stormed out the room. I stood there, frozen. My breath caught in my throat. My heart stopped beating for a second. “What did he just say?” I ran after him feet heavy, voice shaking. I needed to know what that meant. I needed the truth, no more lies. Not another damn secret. But it wasn’t him who answered me. It was my mother. Her eyes full of a grief that had aged decades. Her mouth trembling. And with a whisper, a single breath that shattered the world I thought I knew, she said: “He’s not your biological father.” I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t cry. I just stood there, twenty-seven years old, watching everything I thought was real fall apart around me like broken glass. It wasn’t that he wasn’t my blood. It wasn’t that he wasn’t my “real” dad. It was the lie. Twenty seven years of lying. Every birthday. Every bedtime story. Every "I love you." Every moment I clung to him, believing he was the one man I could count on. And none of it was true. They lied to me through my childhood. They lied through my trauma. They lied when I bled. When I gave birth. When I broke and begged and begged again just to be seen. I could’ve handled the truth. What I couldn’t handle was the years they chose silence over honesty. The way they let me walk through fire lost, hurting, not even knowing who I really was. I didn’t even get a choice in my own story. They wrote it for me. In ink I never saw. In chapters I didn’t know were fiction. I felt betrayed. Abandoned. Empty. Because even now, knowing the truth I still don’t know who my father is. Not the real one. And the one who raised me? He couldn’t even admit it without a fight. He said it by accident and then ran. No apologies. No explanations. Just silence. Again. Always silence. But I’m done being quiet. Done being lied to. Done being the girl no one thinks deserves the truth. I don’t know where I go from here. I don’t know what this means for me. But I know this: I deserved better.:( I always have.

It’s been a while since I wrote here. Not the website, but here, on Her Untold Pages. And this time, I’m sharing a story no one knows. Not a single soul. I’m even too scared to say it out loud. So many things have happened to me in my life, things so dark, so twisted, it almost feels like fiction. But somehow, I made peace. Not with everyone. Not with everything. But with the fact that it all happened to me. I survived it. I kept going. Somehow. And then... I met him. The love of my life. Yes, I’m still technically married. Sort of. But this man, older, steady, raw, real, he lit a fire in me I thought had died years ago. He sees me. Truly sees me. He loves what I love. Feels what I feel. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel again. I’m not just in love with him... I love him. He’s my last destination, or that’s the desperate hope I’m clinging to. Since he came into my life, the world felt a little less heavy. Not easier. Not perfect. But better. He gives me something to wake up for. To fight for. To dream about. But then... something happened. And I don’t know how to carry it. I don’t know if I should tell him. Or if I should bury it with the rest of my pain. But he’s noticing. He sees the shift in my eyes. He hears the silence in my laugh. He feels the distance I’m trying so hard to hide. I’m going to have to tell him. Maybe not everything. Maybe just the surface. Because I don’t want to scare him away. I can’t lose him. Please, God, I can't lose him too. So I’m telling you first. My beautiful broken souls. Because you won’t judge. You won’t run. And if you do... that’s okay. Because we’re all just human. And this pain... this is too much for one person to carry. A week ago, I got caught up in something I never saw coming. There’s this guy at the corner shop near our house. He seemed harmless. Just another face. But he wasn’t. He deals drugs. Sells illegal things. Dangerous. Manipulative. Cruel. He wanted me to work for him. I said no. So he blackmailed me. Said he’d shoot my kids. Said he knows where I live. What they look like. And today... today was the worst day of my life. He called me just minutes before I was supposed to speak to the man I love. He told me to meet him at the shop. I said I couldn’t. He said if I didn’t, he’d show up at my house with a gun. He said he’d “start with the little one.” So I said yes. My voice didn’t even sound like mine when I answered. It was shaky. Hollow. A ghost. I met him there. His eyes were cold. Empty. Like there was no soul left in him. He said he needed my help. He told me to follow him. I said I couldn’t. He didn’t care. He pulled the gun out. "I wasn’t asking." I followed him. Each step felt like walking deeper into a grave. There’s this broken house down the street. Abandoned. Empty. Cold. It looked like it had been swallowed by shadows and silence. Like evil had made a home there and never left. He took me there. Led me around to the back. No windows. No doors. Just a gaping black hole. It smelled like rotting wood, mildew, and something I still can’t name. He told me to go inside. So I did. I felt the darkness wrap around me like a noose. He followed me in. Then... he dropped his pants. Looked me dead in the eyes. And said, "Start sucking." Just like that. Like I was nothing. Like my soul didn't matter. Like my children didn’t matter. I said no. Of course I said no. He laughed. Like I was a joke. Grabbed my hair so hard I thought my scalp would tear. Told me to shut the fuck up. Told me to shut my "white lady mouth" and do what he said. I said no again. Tried to turn away. That’s when he picked up his gun and said, "Then your kids will pay." He turned to leave. To go to my house. I panicked. My body went ice cold. My knees buckled. I screamed, "Okay! Okay! Just stop. Please. Don’t hurt them. Please." He smiled. Like he won. Turned back. Dropped his pants again. I didn’t want to. Every inch of my soul screamed "No." But he shoved me down. Forced himself into my mouth. It tasted bitter. Like metal, and rot, and hate. Like something evil had been brewing inside him for years. I gagged. Choked. Cried. Tried not to breathe, not to exist. I stared at the broken ceiling above, praying it would collapse. Then he pushed me backward. Pulled my pants down. Started touching me. I tried to run past him. He grabbed my hair. Threw me into the stairwell. The cement cracked against my skull. My body folded like paper. And then he raped me. Not my lady parts. The other way. Dry. Bleeding. Screaming. It hurt so fucking bad. It felt like being torn in half from the inside out. I bled. I shook. I screamed without sound. My soul floated above me, watching me fall apart. He hit me. Called me names I can’t even type. Dragged me across the dirt like I was his toy. Like I wasn’t even human. I hate him. I hate the world. But more than that... I hate what he left behind. Because now I’m hiding this. From the man I love. How do I look him in the eyes? How do I say the words? How do I love him with this monster's shadow still crawling inside me? He’ll know something’s wrong. He already does. But how do I tell him? How do I not lose him? How do I live with myself? I never wanted this. I didn’t choose this. But now it’s part of my story. And I don’t know how to carry it. My keyboard is soaked in tears. My body is bruised. My heart is silent. And I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I’ve been through a lot. But this... this might be the one that destroys me. I need help. I need hope. I need love that doesn’t run. Because I’m tired of being strong. Tired of surviving. Tired of bleeding inside where no one can see. I just want to be okay. I just want someone to tell me I’ll be okay. And mean it.