When I was serving my national service, life threw me an unexpected twist — I found out I was pregnant. After long talks filled with fear and hope, we agreed I should keep the baby.
Because I lived alone, it was decided I would move into his family’s house once the child arrived. At first, it seemed like the natural choice — a roof over my head, people around, a home for my newborn.
But it was only after settling there that I began to see sides of him I had never noticed when we lived apart. His habits, his temper, the whispers about his womanizing… shadows began creeping into what was supposed to be a safe haven.
Then came the day that changed everything.
My baby was scalded by hot water. The pain in his cries tore through me like a blade. It wasn’t my fault — I know it in my bones — but the moment it happened, the blame came crashing down on me.
His mother’s voice was sharp, his own tone even sharper. Together they accused me of the unthinkable: that I had burned my own child deliberately. That I had done it to spite him because of his unfaithfulness.
Their words felt like fire themselves — branding me as a monster in my own child’s story.
And here’s the bitter truth: this man, who has brought nothing but turmoil into my life, has never even paid a dowry to my parents. He has never stood before them to officially claim me. I have not even met his father.
Yet somehow, I am the one being painted as guilty.
In the days that followed, my life became unbearable. Every glance from his family was filled with suspicion. Every word, an accusation. Even as I nursed my baby’s burns and prayed for his healing, they whispered that I was dangerous, unfit, unworthy.
I would lie awake at night, my child’s small body curled against mine, wondering how I ended up here. A guest in a house where I was treated as a stranger. A mother fighting to prove she was not a villain.
What hurt most was his silence. Instead of standing beside me, instead of protecting me, he let his mother’s words hang in the air like truths. He chose their judgment over my pain.
One evening, after another argument, I looked at him and asked:
“Tell me, if you truly believe I would harm my own child, why do you keep me here? Why not let me go?”
He had no answer. Only silence.
That silence told me everything I needed to know.
So I made a decision. For my baby. For myself. For the woman I still was beneath the scars.
I packed what little I had and left that house. My child deserved a mother who could fight for him without being crushed by lies. I deserved a life where love wasn’t twisted into suspicion.
And though the road ahead is hard, I know one truth now: sometimes, walking away is the only way to protect both your child and your soul.
