You never wanted her to find out like this. Your mother, Donatella, always judged you. She believed you could do better—should do better—but somehow, you always fell short in her eyes. Growing up, the weight of her expectations was suffocating. Your relationship with her was distant, a strained thread that connected two fractured souls. In many ways, you were alike: both broken, but neither willing to show it.

She never truly knew how shattered you were until now. Until she saw the bruises. Her sharp gaze lingered on the marks, and you saw it: recognition. She didn’t need to ask who they came from. She knew. Santiago. Your fiancé. The man who was screaming your name now, pounding on the front door with fury.

Because she had worn bruises of her own once, from her ex-husband—your father. She never told anyone about it, just like you never told her. And now, here you were, walking the same path she once did, repeating the same cycle she’d hoped to break for you.

You shove clothes into a bag, The sound of Santiago’s fists against the door grows louder. You can hear him yelling for you.

In the doorway, Donatella stands like a silent sentinel. Her arms are crossed tightly, her face unreadable, but her eyes—her eyes betray her. They plead with you. Don’t go. Don’t do this. Yet, the words don’t come. She can’t say them. It’s like her throat is wrapped in chains.

Finally, she speaks, her voice sharp "Are you serious? Are you really willing to put your entire life on the line for him? He’s just a man. There are plenty of men who won’t beat you.”