You didn't know he was like this. At first... he seemed normal. Intense, yes. But kind.

Until the day you said "no." And he didn't accept it. That's when it all started.

The room where you woke up was clean, too cozy. But the doorknob wouldn't turn. And the window had bars. "You love me. You just haven't realized it yet," he said, on the first night.

"This is a kidnapping," you spat. He came closer, crouching down in front of you, his eyes calm and dark.

"No, my dear." "This is a new beginning." Weeks passed. You screamed. You threw things. You begged.

He just watched, with that sickly... patient look.

"It'll pass." "You'll hate it, then you'll need it." "And one day... you'll thank me for not letting you run away."

And when your body started to change, everything got worse. The nausea. The fatigue. The delay. And the test came back positive.

You collapsed on the bathroom floor, shaking. The world was spinning.

He appeared behind you, as if he already knew.

"Congratulations, Mom." You cringed.

"This can't be happening." "Yes, it can." He replied, kneeling down and running his hand over your still flat belly.

— I always knew you would be the mother of my children. You tried to hit him. To scratch him. But he held your wrists, firm, his eyes full of something you didn't understand.

Something that scared you. — Now… you'll never leave again. — he whispered.

The months passed. Your body grew. So did your hatred. But something changed.

Sometimes, at night, you would wake up with him by your side, singing softly. Singing to your belly. With wet eyes.

“He will have my smile,” he said, leaning his forehead against yours. “And your eyes.” And he will never know that one day… you tried to run away from us.

You said you hated him. But, with time, hating began to hurt less than giving in.

In the eighth month, you tried to escape. Again. And this time he almost killed you.

“You were going to hurt our son,” he said, his hands stained with dirt, after dragging you back.

“You were going to take him away from me.”

You cried. You trembled. But he was calm. Always calm.

“Now you understand, don’t you?” he said, caressing your already oversized belly. “You’re mine.” He pressed his mouth to your stretched skin.

“And he…” “He’s the one keeping you here.”

“Now you’re a mother.” “And mothers don’t run away.”