HOLIDAYS & HELL. THE M. TRADITION

Every holiday with him has become a disaster.
Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s. Easter.
It’s like clockwork—violence dressed as tradition.

Thanksgiving, we got into another fight.
Another night of walking on eggshells, afraid to speak, afraid to breathe.
Because when he’s angry—when the rage takes over—he doesn’t stop until I’m silent, small, shaking.

By Easter, I was done.
I didn’t want to pretend anymore.
Didn’t want to sit at his mother’s table and act like we were okay—especially not after everything she’s said and done.
So I went to Coachella.
I chose joy, even if it was temporary.
And of course, he punished me for it.

A double felony.
He came home high, I was asleep—and he started punching the back of my head until I was bleeding.
He didn’t care that I was vulnerable, unarmed, unaware.
He didn’t care that I could’ve lost consciousness. That I could’ve died.

He said it was because I messaged a male friend earlier that night.
He said he didn’t want me living there anymore.
As if any of that justifies the trauma.
As if anything justifies beating the mother of your unborn child while she’s sleeping.

But I didn’t press charges.
I didn’t testify.
I stayed quiet, again.

And now?
He brags.
Calls himself “Teflon.”
Says nothing sticks.
Says he can get away with anything.

And the worst part? So far, he has.

Now I ask myself:
Should I press charges?
Should I stand up and finally say the truth—loud, clear, documented?

Even if he’s the father of my child?
Even if it means exposing everything?

Because here’s what I know:
He didn’t just hurt me—he keeps hurting me.
And if I stay silent… he’ll think he can hurt others, too.
And maybe he has.

He is a monster that needs to be stopped.