She was just 17 when everything changed. He was a stranger, someone she didn’t know and had no reason to fear. He spoke with an easy confidence, disarming her completely. But his intentions became clear too late. The assault was swift, brutal, and left her screaming into the empty night. No one heard. No one came. When it was over, she was left with nothing but silence and a broken sense of herself.
Weeks passed before she began to feel the signs. The sickness. The exhaustion. The unmistakable life growing inside her from that horrific moment. She told her boyfriend, hoping for support, for kindness, for understanding. Instead, his love turned cruel. “You’re lying,” he spat. “You wanted this.” His anger was a storm, his words cutting deep. The arguments escalated until, one night, in a rage, he locked her inside their home. He left for a week.
That evening, the pain began. It started as a dull ache and grew sharper, relentless. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, trying to make sense of what was happening. Then came the blood—thick and horrifying, a crimson wave that stole the breath from her lungs. She screamed, begged for someone to help, but there was no one. Hours passed, and by the time the door was unlocked, it was over. The life inside her was gone.
Years passed, and she rebuilt her world piece by piece. She found love again, a real and gentle love. She gave birth to a son who filled her life with light and laughter. His little hands brought her comfort, his smile soothed wounds she thought would never heal. But the shadows of that time never fully left her.
In the quiet of the night, when the world was still, she thought of the child she lost. She pictured the baby she’d never hold, the tiny face she’d never see. The grief cut deep, but so did the memory of relief. Relief that the child was gone, that she wouldn’t be tied forever to that stranger or her cruel boyfriend. The guilt of that relief sat heavy in her chest, a burden she carried silently.
She never spoke of it. How could she? People wouldn’t understand. They’d say she was cold, heartless, for feeling relief in the midst of her grief. But the truth was, she felt both. And sometimes, when the shadows grew too heavy, she whispered into the dark, “I’m sorry,” hoping, somewhere, somehow, the child she lost could hear her.
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AUTHORS NOTE
This short piece, like much of my darker writing, draws from experiences in my past. It may come as a shock to those who know me today, but I don’t write to upset, seek pity, or invite feedback—I write to heal. This blog reflects my story alone.
If you or someone you know is struggling with the impact of sexual violence, help is available. In the UK, contact Rape Crisis or call their helpline at 0808 802 9999. You’re not alone.
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Very powerful