My baby shower was held on a Saturday afternoon in the community hall of the Lavapiés neighborhood.
I was eight months pregnant, tired but happy, surrounded by lifelong friends: Laura, Inés, Marta, and Sofía.
They knew my pregnancy had been complicated, with constant doctor’s appointments and mounting bills. So, without telling me beforehand, they decided to organize a fundraiser.
At the end of the afternoon, when they opened the donation box, someone counted the money out loud: 47,000 euros . I covered my mouth with my hands, crying with emotion. I never imagined such generosity.
It was then that I saw my mother Carmen ‘s expression . Until then, she had been sitting in a corner, criticizing the decor and complaining about the noise.
Her eyes were fixed on the box as if there was nothing else in the room. She stood up abruptly, walked over to the table, and, without saying a word, tried to grab the box and put it in her bag.
Instinctively, I stepped forward. “Mom, that money is for my medical expenses,” I said, trying to stay calm.
She looked at me with disdain and replied that I was her daughter, that everything I had was hers too. My friends approached, tense. The atmosphere became unbearable.
Carmen looked around and suddenly grabbed an iron bar that was part of a decorative stand. No one had time to react.
I felt a brutal blow to my abdomen, a sharp pain that took my breath away. I heard shouts, but they seemed distant. The floor became wet when my water broke immediately. Panic gripped the room.
I doubled over, unable to stand. Laura called emergency services while Inés wept uncontrollably. All I could think about was my baby.
The pain was unbearable, and before I lost consciousness, I saw my mother back away, pale, as if she had just realized what she had done. Everything went black amidst the chaos and desperate screams.
I woke up in the hospital, under bright white lights and the constant hum of machines.
My husband, Javier, was by my side, his eyes red. The first thing I asked was about the baby. The silence that followed was devastating.
The doctor came in shortly after and explained, in a careful voice, that they had had to perform an emergency C-section.
Our son, Daniel , had been born prematurely and was in intensive care, fighting for his life.
For the next few days, I lived between hope and fear. Daniel was small, fragile, and covered in wires.
Every breath felt like a victory. The nurses explained that the blow had caused a partial placental abruption. It wasn’t a household accident; it was clearly documented as assault.
The police took my statement from my hospital bed. My friends confirmed what happened and provided videos of the incident.
Carmen was arrested that same night. Even so, a part of me couldn’t believe my own mother was capable of something like that. I remembered a childhood marked by control, money, and manipulation. I always minimized her abuse, telling myself, “That’s just how she was.
Medical expenses quickly escalated, but my friends’ fundraiser was a lifeline.
Every euro went towards treatments, medications, and extending my stay near Daniel’s incubator. The community rallied around me; neighbors I barely knew sent messages of encouragement.
After agonizing weeks, Daniel began to stabilize. The day I was able to hold him in my arms for the first time, I felt a mixture of relief and determination.
I couldn’t allow my mother’s violence to continue defining my life or my son’s. With legal help, I filed for a restraining order and prepared for a difficult trial.
When we finally left the hospital, she wasn’t the same person who had gone in. She had lost her naiveté, but gained a strength she hadn’t known she possessed.
The trial was tough, but necessary.
Carmen tried to justify herself, speaking of stress, misunderstandings, even blaming me for “provoking” her.
However, the evidence was clear and the testimonies compelling. The judge handed down a sentence for aggravated assault and upheld the permanent restraining order. I felt sadness, yes, but also a profound peace. Protecting my son was now my absolute priority.
Today, Daniel is two years old. He’s a happy, curious, and vibrant child. Every time I see him running around the park, I remember how close we came to losing him.
My relationship with my mother was broken, and I accepted that not everyone who gives us life knows how to take care of it. I learned that setting boundaries isn’t betrayal; it’s survival.
Over time, I transformed this experience into something more. I began collaborating with organizations that support women who are victims of domestic violence. Sharing my story isn’t easy, but I know it can help others recognize warning signs and seek help in time. Shame shouldn’t be our burden.
I owe my friends more than money; I owe them for reacting when I couldn’t. They saved my son in more ways than they can imagine. True solidarity changes lives.
If you’ve made it this far, perhaps this story has touched you deeply. Maybe you know someone going through a similar situation, or perhaps you’re experiencing it yourself. Talking, sharing, and offering support can make all the difference . Tell us what you think, share this story if you believe it can help others, and remember that no one deserves to suffer violence, regardless of who perpetrates it. Your voice matters.
