The house on Elm Street looked like a brochure.
Yellow paint. Trimmed hedges. The kind of place people assume is safe.
Inside, at 4:55 a.m., I was already awake.
Not because of pregnancy insomnia.
Because when your life runs on someone else’s temper, your body learns to stay on alert.
I was six months pregnant. My belly was heavy. My back burned. My ankles were swollen.
Daniel slept beside me like nothing was wrong.
In sleep, he looked harmless.
Awake, he operated like a threat assessment you could never close.
His parents had been staying with us for a week. Agnes and Victor. “To help,” they said.
What they really brought was oversight. Pressure. And a new audience for Daniel’s cruelty.
At exactly 5:00 a.m., the door slammed open.
The lights snapped on.
“Get up, you lazy cow!” Daniel screamed.
“Do you think being pregnant makes you a queen? Get downstairs and cook for my parents NOW!”
I pushed myself up on shaking arms. “Daniel… it’s five in the morning. I’m dizzy—”
He ripped the blanket off me like he was stripping away my right to exist.
Cold air hit my skin.
“Move,” he said. Not asked. Ordered.
I didn’t argue. Arguing costs time. Arguing escalates risk.
I followed, because compliance sometimes buys survival.
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