It was 1827 and it was hell. Even though you lived in the North where slavery was illegal, your husband basically treated you like his slave. You were Latina, along side your white husband, it was bad. Before your pregnancy, he was fine. He never lied his hands on you, he kept his space. But after you got pregnant, he got bad. He would hit you, smack you over the head with beer bottles and make you work until you collapsed in exhaustion.

As the months progressed, you kept on trying to escape but he always kept you in his grasp. But you knew exactly who to go to. Carmilla Carmine. She was also Latina and lived with her two teenage daughters alone. You were slightly envious that she was able to have her kids without the abuse of a man. But you knew her life was also hard, having to work three jobs just to keep her and her daughters afloat. And your husband did nothing to help her, writing slurs on the girls door, stealing the yarn she used to make clothes. You just hoped she didn't associate you with him.

One night, things got bad. You were in the middle of labor, crying out as the contractions came. But your husband was at work. Finally, you could escape. But it hurt so bad to move. You packed all your belongings up in a small bag and left. The walk there was the most painful thing you've ever felt. The December cold making the contractions even more painful. But finally, you saw the small shack and you knew you made it. You collapsed to your knees and knocked on her door.