At my baby shower, eight months pregnant and surrounded by friends, everything fell apart when my husband, Javier, announced he was giving the $10,000 we’d saved for our daughter’s birth to his mother. When I tried to stop him, he exploded in rage — and his mother, Carmen, violently punched me in the stomach. I fell backward into the pool, sinking as I struggled to protect my baby, while Javier stood on the edge… laughing. Moments before losing consciousness, I felt something terrifying in my belly.

I woke up in the hospital to the worst news a mother could hear — my baby girl, Lucía, was gone. A neighbor had seen what happened and called for help, saving my life. When the police asked if I wanted to press charges, I said yes. Javier never visited; he only sent a cruel message saying I’d “brought this on myself.” With my parents’ support, I faced the trial. Evidence proved everything: Carmen was convicted of aggravated assault and manslaughter, and Javier was sentenced for failing to help me.

After the trial, I moved to a small apartment by the sea, drowning in grief but trying to heal. Then a letter arrived from Javier. He claimed he hadn’t laughed — that he’d been frozen in shock — and said his mother had blackmailed him into giving her the money. He begged for forgiveness, insisting he never meant for any of it to happen. I didn’t know whether to believe him, but something inside me needed closure.

When I visited him in prison, he looked like a different man — broken, remorseful, and hollow. He apologized, but I told him the truth: his silence and cowardice cost us our daughter. As I walked away from that prison, I didn’t feel pity or rage anymore. I felt something far stronger — freedom.