Terrence walked in, saw the bags, and instead of asking Nyla what she wanted, nodded at his mother like she was saving the family.
“Good,” he said. “Do whatever she says, Nyla.”
And just like that, Nyla lost control of her own pregnancy.
From that day, the war began—incident by incident, day by day.
First, Terrence started monitoring her meals.
“If you eat that, you’ll lose the baby,” he’d say.
If she drank juice, he frowned. If she ate rice, he complained. If she craved something sweet, he acted like she’d committed a crime.
Then Ivonne added rules.
“No salt. No bread. No big plates.”
Nyla would be hungry and shaking, and Ivonne would smile like hunger was discipline.
“Sacrifice is what mothers do,” Ivonne said.
But the craziest part? Terrence started tracking Nyla like she was a child.
One evening, Nyla stepped outside just to breathe. Five minutes.
When she came back, Terrence was standing by the door holding his phone.
“Where were you?” he asked.
“Outside,” Nyla answered. “I needed air.”
Terrence showed her the screen—a location app.
“You turned off your location for three minutes,” he said slowly. “Why?”
Nyla’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Because what do you even say when your husband treats you like a suspect?
Days passed.
