Until one day, I lost consciousness in the middle of the yard from unbearable pain. He took me to the hospital and pretended that I had slipped on the stairs.
But he never imagined that the result the doctor would hand him—an X-ray film—would paralyze him with fear and shock.
My husband dragged me out into the yard and beat me as if pouring out all his rage, for one single reason only:
“I married you, but you can’t even give me a son.”
First came the slaps.
Then the kicks and stomps.
Until finally, blows that struck without choosing where they landed.
The neighbors heard everything, but they closed their doors.
My mother-in-law stayed inside the house, praying the rosary.
And I—slowly becoming used to curling my body and enduring the blows—only hoped he would hurry up so I could get up again and cook.
I gave birth to two daughters.
Both were considered “burdens.”
Every time he looked at the children, he beat me even harder—as if everything were my fault.
That day felt like just another ordinary morning.
As he beat and cursed me, my ears rang and my vision darkened. With the final blow, I collapsed to the ground and remembered nothing more.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a stretcher. My husband was beside me, a rare trace of concern on his face. He quickly told the doctor:
“My wife slipped on the stairs.”
I no longer had the strength to speak.
I simply closed my eyes.
I was taken in for a full examination because the doctor suspected severe injuries. I was pushed into the room—the cold white light hit my face directly.
After nearly an hour, the doctor called my husband outside first.
I was still inside the room, but I could hear their conversation in the hallway.
The doctor lowered his voice:
“Could you please look at the X-ray results?”
There was no response.
A few minutes later, the door suddenly opened. My husband walked in—his face pale, his hands trembling as he held the X-ray film, barely able to keep his grip.
He looked at me. His lips moved, but no words came out.
The doctor followed and spoke calmly but clearly:
“The patient has injuries caused by repeated physical abuse. But the more important matter we need to inform you about… is the result of your examination.”
My husband suddenly turned toward him.
“M-my examination? What examination?”
The doctor pointed to the film and the medical records folder:
“You have congenital infertility. You do not have the ability to have children—neither male nor female.”
The entire room fell silent.
I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
My mind was empty—until a strange feeling passed through me… relief.
For years of beatings, insults, and being treated as worthless—
all of it had been blamed on a fault that was never mine.
My husband stood frozen, like a statue.
The X-ray film slipped from his hands and fell to the floor.
Stammering, he said:
“No… impossible… the doctor must be wrong…”
The doctor did not argue. He simply added quietly:
“The two children you are raising now are not because your wife ‘cannot give birth.’
It is because you are the one who is incapable of having children.”
That same night, the police arrived at the hospital.
The doctor was the one who called them.
The old and new wounds on my body could not be explained by a simple fall down the stairs.
My husband was taken in for investigation that very night.
And I—for the first time in many years—
lay in a hospital bed without fearing the coming morning.
Some truths do not need to be shouted.
Sometimes,
a single X-ray film
is enough to turn an entire life of misplaced blame upside down.