Until one day, I passed out in the middle of the yard because of the pain. He took me to the hospital and pretended that I had slipped on the stairs.
But he didn’t expect that the result the doctor would give—an X-ray film—would paralyze him with fear and shock.
My husband dragged me out of the yard and beat me as if he was venting all his anger, for one reason only:
“I married you but you can’t even give birth to a son.”
First, slaps.
Next, kicks and kicks.
Until the end, blows that did not choose any part of the body.
The neighbors could hear everything, but they closed the doors.
My mother-in-law, inside the house, was praying the rosary.
And I—little by little, I got used to curling up and enduring the beating, hoping that he would hurry up so that I could get up and cook food.
I gave birth to two daughters.
Both of them were considered a “burden.”
Every time he saw the children, he beat me even harder—as if everything was my fault.
That day seemed like just another ordinary morning.
As he beat and cursed at me, my ears were ringing and my vision was going black. With the last blow, I fell to the ground and could remember nothing.
When I woke up, I was lying on a stretcher. My husband was beside me, a rare look of concern on his face. He quickly told the doctor: “My husband slipped on the stairs.”
I didn’t have the strength to speak.
I just closed my eyes.
I was taken in for a full examination because the doctor suspected that my injury was serious. I was pushed into the room—the cold white light hit my face directly.
After about an hour, the doctor called my wife outside first.
I was still inside the room, but I could hear the conversation in the hallway.
The doctor’s voice lowered:
“Can you look at the X-ray results?”
There was no answer.
A few minutes later, the door suddenly opened. My wife entered—pale, her hand shaking as she held the X-ray film, she could barely let go of it.
She looked at me. Her lips moved, but no words came out.
The doctor followed and spoke slowly but clearly:
“The patient has injuries caused by repeated injuries. But the more important thing we want to inform you about… is the result of your examination.”
He suddenly turned around:
“A… examination? What examination?”
The doctor pointed to the film and the folder of records:
“You have congenital infertility. You are unable to have children—whether male or female.”
The entire room fell silent.
I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
My mind was blank—until a strange feeling… relieved.
For many years of beatings, insults, and treating me as if I was useless—
it turned out that it was all because of a sin that was never mine.
My husband stood there, like a statue.
The X-ray film fell to the floor.
He stammered:
“No… impossible… the doctor might have made a mistake…”
The doctor didn’t argue. He just added quietly:
“The two children you are taking care of now—it’s not because your wife ‘can’t give birth’.
It’s because you are the ones who are incapable of having children.”
That same night, the police arrived at the hospital.
The doctor made the call.
The old and new wounds on my body couldn’t be explained by a simple slip on the stairs.
My husband was brought in for investigation, that very night.
And I—for the first time in many years—
lay in the hospital bed without fear of the coming morning.
There are truths that don’t need to be shouted.
Sometimes,
just one X-ray film,
is enough to turn a whole life of blaming the wrong person upside down.