My husband always belittled me because he believed poverty defined my worth, mocking my lack of education while reminding me daily that he rescued me from the village only because I was untouched.

For three years after our marriage, his attitude shifted drastically, turning cold, sharp, and unpredictable as though my presence irritated him deeply, even though I carried his name and bore his burdens quietly.

He complained constantly that I smelled unpleasant, insisting my scent embarrassed him before his wealthy friends, although I bathed frequently and kept myself clean despite exhaustion from endless chores throughout the mansion.

After giving birth to our first child and carrying another, he still treated me like filth, punishing me emotionally, physically, and mentally while reminding me I was beneath every woman he met.

He despised the simplicity of my vocabulary, mocking my speech publicly, claiming I disgraced him socially while forgetting I came into his home uneducated and vulnerable, hoping to learn gradually with time.

One scorching afternoon while serving his food, he flung the steaming hot plate into my face, burning my skin. I screamed, collapsing as unbearable heat clung agonizingly to my cheek.

Before I could recover, he slapped me violently, knocking me sideways, then poured water over me, shouting insults while I trembled helplessly on the floor questioning what crime warranted such cruel punishment.

I massaged my burning cheek with shaking hands, crying uncontrollably while begging heaven to explain the reason for my suffering, though no answer arrived beyond the echo of his departing footsteps.

He stormed out angrily, leaving me wounded, humiliated, and terrified. Still, I crawled upright because my daughter needed me, and pain could not excuse me from my duties.

My husband frequently brought his mistress home publicly, forcing me to attend to her whims politely as though I served royalty, even instructing me to kneel while offering refreshments humiliatingly.

Watching him pamper another woman in our home shattered my heart repeatedly, but my trapped existence offered no escape, leaving me enduring torment in silence to protect my fragile daughter.

I felt broken each time he touched her lovingly, giving her gifts, affection, and admiration, gestures I never received even once during our marriage, not even during pregnancies or hardships.

Despite carrying his child, I lived in starvation as he refused to spend even a coin on food for me or our daughter, prioritizing his mistress completely while neglecting our essential needs.

My pregnancy weakened me severely, especially with malnutrition and emotional exhaustion, leaving my body frail and trembling daily, barely capable of performing household tasks expected forcefully from me.

I begged for hospital care when fever symptoms emerged, fearing complications, yet he rejected the idea instantly, claiming medical bills were wasteful, insisting my duty remained serving his mistress obediently.

His cruelty deepened when I resisted; he struck me hard across the face, leaving me dizzy and breathless, collapsing briefly before dragging myself upright to avoid further violence from him.

I worked tirelessly, cleaning floors while sweating with fever, dizziness swirling around me, the mansion spinning inconsistently as my unborn child kicked weakly within my fragile, starved body.

His mistress watched me coldly, smirking occasionally as though enjoying my suffering, giving me additional tasks intentionally despite recognizing my difficulty standing upright without trembling uncontrollably from weakness.

My vision blurred frequently, forcing me to grip furniture for balance while swallowing my pain silently because any complaint triggered more insults, more slaps, and more degrading punishments.

My daughter approached timidly, offering water with tiny hands, whispering encouragement, unaware of seriousness yet sensing my suffering. Her innocence deepened my determination to endure everything for her survival.

Each night I cried quietly, muffling sobs into my pillow to avoid angering him, fearing he might punish my daughter if he heard emotional weakness from either of us.

I prayed for strength, begging heaven to shield my unborn child and protect my daughter from witnessing further cruelty because trauma had begun shaping her delicate young mind.

Then one freezing morning while mopping the living room floor, my vision darkened suddenly; dizziness overtook me as overwhelming weakness surged through my limp body uncontrollably.

My knees buckled, the mop slipping from my weakened grip, and before I could call for help, my body collapsed heavily onto the cold floor as everything faded into darkness.