Chapter 3

Cracks in the Fairy Tale

Just before our daughter was born, the cracks began to show.

It started with a phone call — one of those moments that splits your life in two: before you know, and after you do.

Someone I thought was my friend had thrown a party. I wasn’t there — I was home, six months pregnant, resting and preparing for the baby. She’d gotten a few of the guys really drunk, including him. That night, she slept with him.

And she couldn’t wait to tell me.

She smiled when she said it, proud of herself, like it was a victory instead of a betrayal. That was the first time he broke my heart — not just because of what happened, but because of who it was with, and how easily it all seemed to unravel.

We broke up soon after. I didn’t know what else to do. I felt humiliated, hollow, and angry all at once. Every dream I had — of family, love, safety — shattered before it had even begun.

Then, weeks later, he came back — broken, remorseful, and swearing he didn’t remember it happening. He said he’d been drinking too much, that he couldn’t believe it was true. He was lost, confused, and desperate to make things right.If it hadn’t been for another friend — the one who came to me and told me that the next morning he’d gone to him, crying, confused, and full of regret — I probably would’ve never believed him. But somehow, I did.

It took months of apologies, of him trying to prove himself, for me to forgive him. But forgiveness and trust aren’t the same thing. I forgave, but I never forgot. Something inside me shifted then — a quiet awareness that love can hurt you even when it says it won’t.

Then our daughter was born.

She came into the world tiny and perfect, with eyes that mirrored mine so exactly it was like looking at a piece of myself. The first time I held her, I knew — no matter what happened between us, she was the one thing that would keep me moving forward.

We even went to his senior prom not long after — me in a burgundy gown that fit like a glove, almost back to my pre-baby weight. For one night, I felt like the girl I’d been before everything got complicated. The music, the laughter, the feeling of being seen again — it almost felt normal. Almost.

But then things started to change again.

His grandmother — sharp-tongued, calculating, and always half-serious when she joked — used to say I should just give her my daughter. The first words out of her mouth the day my baby was born were, “You should just give her to me.” I laughed it off then, thinking it was just her way. I didn’t know yet how deep those words would cut later.

The first time he hit me, I was cleaning the kitchen.

It happened so fast that I didn’t even register it at first — the sound, the shock, the way the world went still for a second. Then came the broom handle, pressed hard against my throat, pinning me to the wall.

I remember the sound of my heartbeat, the sting of confusion, and how completely frozen I was — not from fear, but disbelief. This was the same man who used to hold me through the night, who kissed my forehead, who promised forever.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight back. I just stood there, stunned, trying to understand how the person I loved had just turned into a stranger.

That was the moment the fairy tale cracked wide open.

And though I didn’t know it yet, it was only the beginning of the storm that was coming.