I regained consciousness still in the bathroom.

Drenched and bloodied, with my stomach painfully contracting.

As I stood up, the bloodstains on the wall reminded me of the previous night's horror.

I had to call the police.

Driven by instinct, I dialed 911.

What's next after calling for help? Preserve the scene, and save the evidence.

Trembling, I snapped photos of the blood on the wall and my injuries, lifting my clothes to document the bruises.

My leg throbbed to the bone as if broken, the sharp pain overshadowing all else.

Lying on the floor all night in the heat, I felt nauseous, my stomach in knots, fearing critters might have scurried over me.

Stop, that thought alone made me want to throw up.

I propped myself up against the toilet, clutching my roiling stomach, desperate to use it but I couldn't.

I feared it'd clear the fingerprints on it.

I endured until the police arrived.

Thankfully, a female officer was there. I clung to her, pleading to use a public restroom.

I passed out again.

The officer who helped me to the hospital said I fell due to standing up too quickly.

The hospital staff noticed my condition and fought to save my unborn child.

I managed a weak smile.

This was the same hospital where my infertility journey began.

Without their reminder, I had almost forgotten about my pregnancy.

Another doctor came in, handed some documents to the officer, and asked me a few questions.

My vision was blurry, and without my glasses, I struggled to see or hear clearly, responding slowly to his inquiries.

"We need to check her hearing and vision and assess for any damage. I'll also order a CT scan to evaluate potential brainstem injuries."

Once my parents arrived, the police couldn't stay with me around the clock. The female officer left with the medical report.

My mom gripped my hand, her eyes red with fury as she cursed my husband, Steve.

"After all your struggles, he still raised his hand to you? Before, they had the excuse of no grandkids, but now what?"

Memories of his fury and his steadfast belief I cheated flashed through my mind. Why did he have that thought?

Then I thought of my mother-in-law's smug certainty. There was definitely something off.

I balled my fists. I wasn't about to let this slide. He would pay for this assault.

"Mom, we need to file for divorce. Let's distance ourselves from that jerk first, then sort out the details."

"No, how can you just divorce like that?"

Her response shocked me, and she quickly tried to recover.

"I mean, maybe there's a misunderstanding, and have you thought about life after divorce?"

Life after divorce? I'm capable, employed, and independent. Nothing could be worse than staying tied to an abuser.

I looked at her sadly. You're my mom. Why does appearance matter more than your daughter's life?

Maybe she's just stuck in her ways, struggling to adapt.

With my mobility impaired, where could I hide if he became enraged over the divorce?

I had thought having a happy family and loving parents was enough, despite not having children according to plan.

Now, it's clear I've been on my own the whole time.

I sighed, resigned yet determined, for my sake and for the child I might yet have to forsake.

"Fine, no divorce for now. But I've reported him. If he doesn't suffer any consequences, he'll think he can hit me whenever he wants. You go to the station, and give your statements. We'll handle the rest after I recover."

"I knew you'd have a plan. Don't worry, sweetie. We won't let them get away with this. Your dad and I will demand an explanation from his mother, ensure they don't dare mistreat you again."