Daniel had spent months teaching me that anything wrong with the pregnancy would be my fault.
When I was nauseated, he said I was weak.
When I needed to sit down in the grocery store, he accused me of embarrassing him.
When an early appointment did not confirm whether the baby was a boy, he drove home in silence and later asked whether I had done something to “ruin it.”
I had laughed nervously because I thought the question was too ridiculous to be dangerous.
I was wrong.
The morning of the assault, Daniel had come home with a hard, fixed look on his face and asked why I had written two girl names on a scrap of paper beside the refrigerator.
I told him they were only names I liked.
He tore the paper in half and said there would be no need for them.
I tried to leave the kitchen, but he took my phone and car keys and placed them on top of the refrigerator where I could not reach comfortably.
