**Diary Entry**
I never thought I’d see him like this. Alex loomed over me, his face twisted in a way I didn’t recognise. “What the hell were you doing on my laptop?”
I got home from school and caught the stale stench of beer in the hallway. Loud snores rumbled from the living room—Dad was drunk again. Without a word, I walked straight to the kitchen.
Mum stood by the sink, peeling potatoes. She turned at the sound of my steps. My sharp eyes caught the red, swollen mark on her cheek.
“Mum, let’s leave him. How much more can you take? He could kill you one day,” I spat, bitterness thick in my voice.
“And go where? Who’d want us? We can’t afford rent on our own. Don’t worry, he won’t kill me. He’s a coward—only brave enough to raise a hand to me.”
The next morning, odd noises woke me. I crept to the kitchen. Dad stood by the stove, head tilted back as he gulped water straight from the kettle’s spout. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, heard the liquid gurgle down his throat. *Just drown. Please, just drown.*
But he didn’t. He set the kettle down with a satisfied grunt, shot me a bloodshot glare, and lumbered past to the bathroom.
My skin crawled thinking of Mum refilling that kettle—unwashed, still carrying the stench of him. I scrubbed it raw, silently vowing never to drink from it again without washing it first.
During the Christmas break, my class went on a three-day trip to Edinburgh. When I got back, Mum was in hospital.
“Was it him?” I demanded, seeing the bandages wrapped around her head.
“No, love. Slipped on ice outside.”
But I knew she was lying.
The beatings worsened her blood pressure. Six months later, she had a stroke—gone. At the wake, Dad wept drunken tears, swaying between grieving his “precious Annie” and cursing her for leaving him.
He snarled that I was just like her, warning that if I ever left him, he’d kill me. I counted the days until graduation. Skipped prom. Collected my A-levels quietly. While he was at work, I packed a bag and ran.
He gave me grocery money—money I pocketed whenever I could. Sometimes fished from his trousers when he passed out. Not much, but enough to survive. I’d decided long ago—I’d work, study remotely.
I wasn’t afraid he’d come after me. The neighbors knew his habits; the local bobby wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. I moved to London, took a shabby flat on the outskirts, got a job at Chicken Cottage—free meals, help with my hygiene certificate. Enrolled in college for accounting. When they found out, they put me on tills.
Boys tried their luck. *They’re all sweet at first. Then the drinking starts. Or the cheating. Don’t trust their pretty words, love. I was beautiful once too. Your dad didn’t drink when we met. Look how that turned out.* Mum’s warnings stuck. I shut them all out.
I learned from Mum’s habits—stocked up on pasta, tins, anything long-lasting. Dad drank his wages dry, but we never starved. Now I did the same.
One evening, weighed down by shopping bags, I collided with a guy glued to his phone.
“Sorry,” he said, finally looking up.
I meant to snap, but his grin disarmed me. “My fault.”
He offered to help carry my bags. Hesitant, I let him. Someone with a smile like that couldn’t be bad. Alex chatted easily, carried them to my doorstep—though I didn’t let him inside.
Next day, he turned up at work. “Just passing by.” Liar.
We started dating. He was upfront—divorced, a little girl he adored, crashed at his mate’s flat. “Married too young. We had nothing in common.”
He doted on his daughter. I trusted him for it. A month in, he suggested moving in together.
“Let’s get a decent flat. Easier to split costs.”
I agreed, dizzy with hope. A real family. We moved into a one-bed, celebrated quietly. I didn’t think about weddings, but Alex did—two kids, a boy and a girl. I believed him.
He paid rent upfront for two months. The third, he sheepishly asked me to cover it. “Daughter’s birthday. Bought her something nice, plus child support…”
No question. I paid. Then it became routine—sick kid, helping his parents. *We’re family*, I told myself.
When I found out I was pregnant, I blurted it out, expecting joy. He just nodded.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Just surprised. I am, really.” His hug felt stiff.
But as weeks passed, no ring. Just nausea that left me retching.
“My ex never had morning sickness. Maybe something’s wrong with you?”
The *ex* stung. What was I?
“Everyone’s different. It’ll pass.”
It did—replaced by ravenous hunger. My clothes didn’t fit. One day, he noticed a new dress.
“No money, yet you’re shopping?”
“I need something to wear! Spent it all on your daughter again?”
“She’s my kid. I’ll always put her first.”
“And me? Our baby?”
“I didn’t think you’d be like this.”
“If she matters more, maybe there shouldn’t *be* a baby.”
The slap came out of nowhere. My cheek burned.
“Sorry, I lost control. Are you okay?” He knelt, pleading.
*He hit me. Sober.* Dad at least was drunk.
I forgave him. *My fault—I threatened the baby.* He loved me. It wouldn’t happen again.
But it did.
Months later, I opened his laptop to shop for prams. Prices made me wince. *Second-hand’ll do.* My finger slipped—clicked a folder. A girl filled the screen, laughing, arms full of autumn leaves. Another photo—just her, smiling at the camera.
*Who is she? His ex? Too young. Just a random photo?*
My stomach lurched. The baby kicked.
*He’s cheating. You know nothing about him. What if he lied about everything?*
Keys turned in the lock. I slammed the laptop shut—too late.
“You went through my things?” His voice chilled me.
“I was looking at prams. I opened the wrong—”
“*Who is she?*”
“Colleague’s wife. He sent the wrong files.”
“Then why keep them? You’re lying!”
His face contorted. I stepped back.
*Run.*
“Yeah, there’s someone else. *Your* fault. You were fit when we met. Now look at you—fat cow. Think I want this?”
“I’m pregnant!”
The blow cracked my skull against the wall. Darkness. Then his grip kept me upright.
“Never touch my things again.” Spittle hit my face.
I gagged—suddenly back in that kitchen, watching Dad gulp from the kettle.
Alex stepped away. I collapsed, pain tearing through me.
He vanished into the bathroom. I stumbled out, clutching my belly.
Next thing I knew, a neighbor called an ambulance.
“Your husband’s so worried,” she cooed.
*Husband?*
Alex knelt, all fake concern. I flinched.
Two hours later, in a delivery room, a voice cut through the haze: *”Boy. Premature.”*
*Mine. Just mine.*
They put me in a shared ward. Safe.
*Mum was right. They’re all the same. I won’t go back.*
Four days later, I returned for my things.
“Where’s the baby?” Alex sneered.
“Still in hospital. Can I get my stuff?”
A stranger’s robe hung in the bathroom. Someone else’s makeup by the washer.
“I’m leaving.”
“Good luck finding better.”
At the shelter, I curled on the thin mattress.
*Mum, I wish you’d listened. We’d have had more time.*
Then, softer: *We’ll be okay, little one. I won’t let anyone hurt you.*
