I thought it would be my salvation when the doctor gave me the test results. I was twenty and my life was going nowhere. I should have known it would be a disaster.
I thought it would save me, though. I had seen him with his kids. I had seen how happy they were when they were around him, how he seemed to dote on them. He looked like a good dad who would never harm any child of his.
I thought that when he knew he had another child growing in my belly, he would stop hitting me, that he would want to love and protect this child as much as he did his other children.
I was excited when I told him. Smiling, thinking that he would be excited, too. He asked me how far along I was. “Three months,” I said. “I’m three months pregnant.”
He looked at me for a long time, saying nothing. I could not read the expression on his face. Then …
He kicked my baby out of me. He planted his foot repeatedly into my belly until I lay there in a pool of blood, mourning for the child that would never be.
My baby, my baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that you had to die so violently, while you were supposed to be safe and protected within my womb.
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