At five in the morning, the bedroom door slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle the framed photo above the dresser.

I was six months pregnant, half asleep, one hand resting on my stomach, when Victor came storming in with fury already burning in his face.

There was no confusion in him, no hesitation, no sleepy edge to explain it away.

He had come into that room angry on purpose.

“Get up, you useless cow,” he shouted, tearing the sheets off my body.

Cold air hit my bare legs.

“You think being pregnant makes you some kind of queen? My parents are hungry.”

The pain in my back had been getting worse for days.

Some mornings it took me a full minute just to sit upright.

I pressed my palm into the mattress, pushed myself up, and the room tilted before it steadied again.

“It hurts,” I whispered.

“I can’t move that fast.”

Victor laughed as if I’d told him a joke.

“Women all over the world work through pain.

Stop acting spoiled and get downstairs.”

That had become his favorite trick over the past few months—take my weakness, name it laziness, then punish me for it.

When we first got married, he had hidden his temper under apologies and flowers.

By the time I was pregnant, he had stopped pretending.

His parents didn’t calm him down.

They fed him.

I shuffled down the stairs one step at a time, one hand on the rail, the other under my belly.

The kitchen lights were already on.

Helena and Raúl sat at the table like they were waiting for entertainment, mugs in front of them, backs straight, faces eager.

Nora leaned against the counter in pajama shorts, holding her phone up with the camera pointed directly at me.

“Look at her,” Helena said, smiling without warmth.

“She thinks carrying a baby makes her special.”

“So slow,” Raúl added.

“So dramatic.”

Victor came in behind me.

“I keep telling her the same thing, but she doesn’t listen.”

“That’s because you’re too soft,” Helena said.

She looked me up and down with open disgust.

“You should have corrected this behavior months ago.”

I used to wonder how a man like Victor became what he was.

Living in that house answered the question better than any therapist ever could.

Cruelty sat at that breakfast table as comfortably as the sugar bowl.

“Eggs, bacon, pancakes,” Victor ordered.

“And don’t burn them this time.”

I turned toward the refrigerator.

My heartbeat was too fast.

My hands were cold.

There had been moments during the pregnancy when dizziness hit me without warning, but never like that.

The room seemed to slide sideways.

The bright kitchen light stretched into a blur.

I reached for the handle and missed.

Then the floor came up hard and fast.

The impact knocked the air out of me.

For one second, I could hear nothing except the hollow thud in my skull.

I was on the cold tile, cheek pressed to the ground, trying to breathe around the panic rising in my throat.

“Unbelievable,” Raúl muttered.

“Get up.”

I rolled slightly, trying to push myself upright.

A sharp cramp seized through my side.

My first instinct was not for myself.

Both hands flew to my stomach.

Victor didn’t kneel beside me.