My name is Alice. I was 27 and full of hope. Tomorrow, I was to marry Luigi, the man I believed would give me a lifetime of love and security.
At 30, I discovered I was pregnant. The morning sickness was relentless, and my body felt strange and fragile. But beneath the nausea and fatigue, I carried a precious gift: our child. Despite the discomfort, I felt such deep, unmistakable joy. Luigi told me I was beautiful, though I didn’t always believe him. Still, I let him treat me with tenderness, comforted by the thought of the family we were about to become.
When I turned 31, little Francesco came into the world. I held him in my arms and watched his tiny hands and toes, marveling at the miracle we had created together. His breath, soft and new, filled me with hope. But soon, a shadow began to creep into our home, one I did not expect.
Luigi’s patience began to unravel. When Francesco cried, he lost himself in frustration. “Make him stop crying,” he demanded harshly. I did everything I could. I rocked him, fed him, tried to calm him with soft words. But it was never enough. One evening, Luigi’s temper broke. His hand struck me. Right then, I forgave him. I told myself it was a mistake. He was tired. Overwhelmed. Surely, love meant understanding, compassion maybe this was just a momentary lapse.
By 32, physical pain started marking my body. Bruises appeared on my cheekbone, arm, and lip. They didn’t come from the baby. They came from him. I cleaned the wounds and layered makeup over the marks. It was easier to hide the truth than to risk judgment or pity. I told myself the peace of the home matters more than the discomfort of honesty.
At 33, things escalated. I ended up in the emergency room with broken ribs. Luigi had kicked me. I told the nurse I slipped in the kitchen while carrying plates. The lie was easy. Falsehoods were simpler than explaining betrayal from the person who was supposed to love me. Yes, I told them I fell. I let them believe. My truth was too heavy to share.
That trust, that hope, lived my final years until I turned 35. On that morning, Luigi pressed a knife against my throat. The blade was cold. Sharp. There was nowhere to hide this time. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t fight. I watched the life drain from me, slowly, quietly, in the same home where once I had imagined joy and warmth.
I died hours later. No final words. No goodbye. Just silence, and dreams shattered beyond repair.
Now, I am no longer “Alice.” I am the breath carried by every mother who lost a child, every woman who loved and gave and stayed too long, every soul silenced by fear and betrayal. I am the whisper of pain hidden behind closed doors. I am the echo of broken dreams and also the legacy of quiet strength.
My story does not belong only to me. It belongs to every woman who stayed when she should have left. Every son who lost his mother. Every daughter who lost her safe space. My story is theirs. Their souls deserve to be heard.
Remember this: love is more than a feeling. It is a promise. A responsibility. When love becomes a weapon instead of a shelter, when kindness is replaced by fear, there is no love. No protection. No home.
No one deserves to be made to feel unsafe or unworthy. It is never too late to choose differently to choose kindness, respect, compassion. To choose safety. To value life. To honor love by protecting it, not harming it.
I was Alice. I loved. I lived. I suffered. And I will not be forgotten.