“I married you, and you can’t even give me a son.”
At first, it was a slap.
Then came the kicks.
Then punches—no longer sparing any part of my body.
The neighbors heard everything, but they shut their doors.
My mother-in-law stayed inside the house, clutching her rosary, whispering prayers.
And me—I slowly learned how to curl up and endure it, hoping only that he’d finish quickly so I could stand up and cook breakfast.
I gave birth to two daughters.
To him, both were considered a “burden.”
Every time he looked at them, he hit me harder—
as if their existence was my fault alone.
That day began like every other morning.
He was hitting and cursing at the same time. My ears rang, my vision darkened.
When the final blow landed, my body collapsed onto the concrete yard, and everything went black.
When I woke up, I was lying on a hospital stretcher.
My husband stood beside me, wearing a rare look of concern. He spoke quickly to the doctor, as if he had practiced the lie:
“My wife slipped and fell down the stairs.”
I didn’t have the strength to speak.
I just closed my eyes.
The doctor ordered full scans, suspecting serious internal injuries.
I was wheeled into the imaging room, cold white lights shining directly into my face.
About an hour later, the doctor asked my husband to step outside first.
I was still in the room, but the walls were thin.
I could hear their voices in the hallway.
The doctor’s voice grew low and serious:
“Sir, could you please come and look at the X-ray results?”
There was no response.
A few minutes later, the door swung open.
My husband walked back in, his face completely pale.
His hands trembled as he held the X-ray film, shaking so badly he could barely keep it upright.
He looked at me.
His lips moved, but no words came out.
The doctor followed him in and spoke slowly, clearly:
“She has multiple soft tissue injuries caused by repeated external force. But what we need to discuss now is… the additional test results for you.”
My husband turned sharply.
“Test… what test?”
The doctor pointed to the film and the medical file.
“You have congenital infertility. You are unable to father children—sons or daughters.”
The room fell completely silent.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
My mind went blank.
And then, strangely—it felt lighter.
All those years of being beaten, humiliated, treated as worthless…
were because of something that was never my fault.
My husband stood frozen.
The X-ray slipped from his hands and hit the floor.
He stammered,
“That’s impossible… that can’t be right… the doctor must be wrong…”
The doctor didn’t argue. He simply added one sentence:
“The children you are raising are not the result of your wife ‘failing to give birth.’
They exist because you are incapable of reproduction.”
That night, the police arrived at the hospital.
The doctor was the one who called them.
The old and new injuries on my body could not be explained by a single fall down the stairs.
My husband was taken in for questioning that very night.
And me—
for the first time in many years—
I lay in a hospital bed without fear of the next morning.
Some truths don’t need to be screamed.
Sometimes,
all it takes
is one X-ray film
to overturn a lifetime of blame.