The flickering overhead light made shadows stretch and retreat along the cracked ceiling, like they couldn't decide whether to stay or flee. The bulb buzzed faintly, like it wanted to give out but hadn't gotten permission yet. The couch's springs groaned beneath Jenna as she sat stiffly on the edge, her shoulders hunched like they were protecting something fragile. Her fingers worried a loose thread on her sleeve until it unraveled into a tiny knot. She wasn't even aware she was doing it anymore, the compulsive need to focus on something, anything, that wasn't her. Her skin, once sun-kissed and lively, was paler than usual, almost grey beneath the overhead light. It stretched tight across the sharp architecture of her face. Her collarbones jutted out like punctuation marks in a sentence she hadn't finished writing. Her presence, though physically heavier, felt smaller, like she was folding in on herself cell by cell. She was shrinking in ways no one could see. Ways no one ever asked about.
The apartment whispered exhaustion in every corner. The floor groaned under the weight of old stains and dropped hopes. Empty beer cans lined the coffee table like trophies from a war she hadn't agreed to fight. The dishes in the sink were a monument to neglect, sagging under dried-out food remnants. A layer of greasy dust clung to the stove. The fridge hummed an empty, resentful tune, inside, only a nearly empty egg carton, a bottle of mustard, and expired milk remained. The stink of sour dairy clung to the air. Baby books sat untouched in a dusty pile on the floor, their cellophane wrappers still intact. Titles like Your Miracle Month by Month and Bonding Before Birth glared up at her like accusations. She hadn't opened them. Couldn't. Not yet.
Josh stood by the kitchen counter, twisting the cap off a bottle of cheap whiskey. The movement was fluid, unconscious, like he'd done it so many times that muscle memory carried him even when his mind was somewhere else. His back to her, always his back.
"You're staring again," he muttered.
Jenna blinked. "You're still drinking."
Her voice came out hoarse, scraped thin from disuse. She'd stopped raising it weeks ago. There was no point.
Josh scoffed without turning. "It's one drink. You don't get to police me just 'cause you got knocked up."
Her stomach, swollen and sore beneath her hoodie, gave a soft throb as if in response. She winced, her hand instinctively coming to rest over the curve. The baby kicked, a light flutter, like reassurance.
"It's your baby too," she said quietly.
That got him. He turned slowly, his eyes bloodshot and sunken, face slack with irritation and just a hint of alcohol haze.
"You sure about that?" he asked.
The words hit like a slap. Jenna flinched, not physically, not visibly, but something behind her eyes recoiled. That was his new tactic. Planting doubt. Sowing it like seeds and waiting for it to grow, watching her second-guess herself, question her memories, rewrite the truth to suit his version.
He didn't hit her. Not really. Not in ways that left bruises anyone could see. But he knew exactly where to cut.
And Jenna, she bled in silence.
The weeks that followed blurred into one long stretch of ache and waiting. Each day dissolved into the next like food colouring in water, diluted and bleeding at the edges. Her belly grew. So did his distance.
Josh stopped sleeping beside her, first by accident, then by habit, then by choice. He'd disappear for nights at a time, claiming he was with friends. Crashing at a mate's place. "Just needed space." He'd return smelling of alcohol and unfamiliar perfume. When she'd wake up to the door slamming at 3 a.m., her first reaction was always dread, not relief. He'd crash around in the kitchen, swearing at drawers, making noise just to make it. Then he'd come into the living room and stare at her like she'd ruined his life.
"You're no fun anymore," he muttered once, microwaving a frozen burrito at 2:17 a.m. "You used to laugh. You used to wear makeup."
"I'm carrying your child," she whispered, not as a defence, but as a reminder.
"You say that like I should care."
He stopped touching her. Then he stopped speaking to her unless it was to criticise. Then he started treating her like she was just another broken appliance cluttering the apartment — something once useful, now just taking up space.
"You wanted this," he snapped one night, slamming the bedroom door so hard the picture on the wall fell and cracked. "Don't look at me like I owe you something."
He never went to appointments. Never touched her belly. Never asked about the baby. He hadn't heard the heartbeat. Hadn't felt the kicks. When she came home crying after hearing it for the first time — that galloping echo of life inside her — she'd buried her face in a towel, muffling the sobs so he wouldn't tell her to "quit the drama."
She worked until her body begged her not to. Her job at the diner became a blanket of pain — backache, swollen ankles, pressure in her pelvis that made every step feel like dragging bricks. But the pay check was all she had. No savings. No maternity leave. Just minimum wage and sore feet. Her boss asked once, gently, if she was alright. Jenna smiled the practiced lie. "Just tired."
By the fifth month, customers started to ask if she had support. Did she have family? A partner? Friends? Jenna nodded. Always nodded. Always smiled. Then cried in the stall during her break, heart pounding with shame.
The apartment grew darker. Mold crept into the corners of the ceiling like rot inside a body. The fridge broke for three days and no one called maintenance. Josh didn't notice. He was too busy smoking, drinking, texting women whose names he didn't bother to hide. Jenna found messages once. Explicit ones. Screenshots. Photos. She asked about them. He laughed.
"I'm just talking. You're paranoid. Jesus, you're like a cop."
He made her feel insane. Then convinced her she was.
She started journaling just to prove she wasn't losing it. Just to keep track. But even then, she'd read her own notes and wonder if she was overreacting. Wasn't that what he always said?
At six months, she fell down the stairs carrying groceries. Her balance gone, the weight of the baby shifting wrong. She landed hard, sharp pain blooming through her hip and elbow. She called Josh, crying. Straight to voicemail.
At the ER, they checked the baby. Miraculously, she was okay. Jenna sobbed in the ultrasound room, alone. When she got home, bruised and sore, Josh glanced at her bandages and said, "You're fine. The baby's fine. You're being dramatic."
She didn't speak for the rest of the night. He didn't notice.
By the seventh month, she could barely sleep. Her hips ached, her ankles throbbed, and her heart raced at odd intervals. Her doctor mentioned preeclampsia. Stress. Malnutrition. She needed rest. Stability. Someone to hold her hand. Instead, she got silence.
She asked Josh to come to the final ultrasound — the one where they'd see the baby's face in 3D.
"I've got shit to do."
"You don't work anymore."
"I've still got shit to do."
She pressed. He exploded. Threw his phone. It cracked against the wall, pieces raining down. He got in her face, shouting.
"Back off, Jenna! You've ruined everything!"
She didn't flinch. Didn't cry. She just picked up the broken pieces and threw them in the bin. Sometimes she woke on the couch because it was safer. Other times, she woke because he was yelling in his sleep. Or because he wasn't home and that felt worse. She held her belly like an apology.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm trying. I swear I'll get you out of here."
But leaving felt impossible. Where would she go? Who would help her?
Her mother had stayed. And she'd learned, as many girls do, that love meant endurance. That silence was survival.
In her eighth month, her doctor told her to stop working. Her blood pressure was spiking. The baby's growth had slowed. Jenna nodded, went home, and worked two more weeks. She couldn't afford not to.
Her friends threw her a baby shower. She almost didn't go. Her clothes didn't fit right. Her smile was fake. But they insisted — a few hours of joy.
Josh showed up drunk.
He knocked over the table, insulted her friends, called them "leeches" and "fat witches." When Jenna tried to guide him out, he shoved her.
"I'll leave when I damn well please!"
No one knew what to do. No one said anything.
The next morning, she scrubbed frosting out of the carpet with her bare hands while he slept off the hangover. Her eyes burned. No apology came.
"You overreacted. It wasn't that bad."
When her water broke, she was alone.
She was folding laundry. A trickle at first. Then a rush. Panic set in like a fire. She tried calling Josh. No answer. Again. No voicemail. She called a taxi, hunched over, breathing through it. The driver didn't speak. She bit her lip to stay quiet. She didn't want to cry in front of someone else. The hospital was white and loud. The ER blinding. Voices everywhere. Nurses asking questions.
"Are you alone?"
"Is there someone we can call?"
"Have you been under stress lately?"
She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Instead, she shook her head.
And then the pain began. Full, consuming. Like her body was being cracked open from the inside out. She gripped the bedrails, moaning. A nurse wiped her forehead.
"You're doing great, mama. She's almost here."
Jenna didn't scream. She roared. She roared out every slammed door, every insult, every bruised wrist, every lie she had swallowed like poison.
And then — a cry.
Tiny. Fierce. Alive.
"Congratulations," the doctor said softly. "It's a girl."
They laid the baby on her chest. Warm. Sticky. Breathing. Jenna stared, awe-struck.
And something broke open in her — not pain, not grief — something holy. Something whole.
She wasn't broken.
She wasn't crazy.
She wasn't weak.
She had endured hell. And given birth to a future.
She held her daughter and whispered, "You're safe now."