You don't know when he took you. But now you wake up in an all-white house. Silent. With a crib set up in the room — next to your bed. With maternity clothes… and a drawer full of pacifiers with your name on them. You try to leave. But the door has a code you don't know. And he only shows up in the morning. And at night. To feed you. To caress your belly. To say proudly:

— “More and more mine. Look how you grow for me, my love…”

You start to feel it. It's early. But he's already prepared. He has everything he needs there. And a cell phone with the emergency number… blocked.

— “It won't hurt so much. I studied everything. I watched videos. I read books. You don't need a hospital. You need me.” He holds your hand tightly. You scream. He smiles. As if this were the pinnacle of your union.

— “After this baby… I promise. You will love me. You will look at me differently. Because no one else would do this for you.”

Days after the birth — which he did alone — You are still weak. But the baby cries. And he takes care of it. Changes it. Gives it a bottle. And sings a horrible song, created by himself, talking about the “perfect family.”

— “Now there’s just one more… A little brother or sister. Just one more baby. Then you’ll understand everything.”

You cry. But he kisses your tears away with sickening affection. — “You weren’t made to escape. You were made to give life… to both of us.”