I met the father of my daughter in 2012. At first, we became friends, and over a few months, those friendships turned into strong feelings. By January 2013, we decided to be together. He seemed kind and caring—helping me with my homework and even my driving school quizzes. He was a good listener, hard-working, and even washed my shoes sometimes. Our faith brought us close; we often prayed together, though he smoked occasionally. Life seemed fine—until April 2013, when I found out I was pregnant.
He promised me that we would face this together and that afterward, we would move to London, where his father would help us. I trusted him and chose to continue the pregnancy, despite the challenges of being a student. My mother welcomed him into our home since he had nowhere else to stay. But once I committed to the pregnancy, his behavior changed dramatically. He became aggressive, drank excessively, used drugs, and quit his job. He would insult me daily, telling me I was ugly, fat, and undesirable—and that no one would ever want me if he left. I tried my best to improve myself, to fix what I thought was wrong, but nothing was enough for him. Some days, he would return to his old self briefly, but those moments were always followed by outbursts and emotional chaos.
During the early months of my pregnancy, I faced serious health challenges—threats of miscarriage and placenta previa. I even helped him find a job that paid 700 Euros a month with accommodation, yet he disappeared for weeks, keeping his phone off, leaving me isolated and unable to see him due to my medical condition. After conflicts at his workplace, he quit again, leaving him homeless once more. My mother, hoping to help, took him in again. I tried to encourage him to find work, but he always had excuses—too tired, too lazy, too drunk, or too aggressive to talk with. He even raised his hand to me once. I hid everything from my mother, telling myself it was just a rough patch and that things would eventually improve.
Months passed, and the situation worsened. I discovered porn sites on our shared computer, and later, chat profiles where he claimed to be single, seeking sexual encounters online. The hope of a loving, united family slipped away. I blamed myself—my pregnancy, my sensitivity, my past. My parents’ divorce and my father’s death when I was fifteen had left scars. Confronting him, he apologized, promising to change, and I forgave him, desperate for stability.
When my daughter was born, he held her and jokingly said in English, “She is so beautiful, now I’m taking her away.” I cried, asking him to give her back. He dismissed my feelings, saying I was too sensitive. Even in the hospital, he arrived late, promised to change, and professed love, but a week later, he ran away after an argument with my mother. I was left terrified, ill, unable to eat or sleep, sending him messages begging him to return. Eventually, he came back, apologized, and I let him stay for the sake of our daughter. Nights were the hardest—my daughter crying, him pretending to sleep, and my mother doing her best to help me while working in the mornings. I felt more alone than ever.
When I returned to school, I hired a babysitter to help at night, unable to trust him alone with our daughter. One evening, I discovered disturbing Facebook chats with multiple women, some dating back a year, in which he spoke of a “love contract” and even threatened me. I printed the conversations, terrified but knowing I needed evidence. One night, after a week of fighting, he threatened to take my daughter away. I ran to call the police, and he chased me with a knife, shouting, “If you call the police, I will make you see hell!” My mother, holding our baby, didn’t understand because she didn’t speak English. I managed to escape to my grandmother’s house, and he eventually left, calling later to apologize.
Afterward, I discovered he had a wife and two children in his country, with a shocking history of crimes, violence, and manipulation. He had planned to get me pregnant, marry me, then bring his family to my country to displace us. Even when he went to Sweden, he continued a cycle of abusive behavior with another woman. Through it all, I realized I had survived a manipulative, dangerous sociopath.
I raised my daughter with the support of my family. She doesn’t know about her biological father yet, and I plan to explain things carefully when she’s ready. Now, she is almost six, and I am 26. She is kind, gentle, and full of joy. Life as a single mother is sometimes hard, sometimes funny, and always rewarding. She is my miracle, my unconditional love, and my pride. I am proud of myself for leaving a toxic relationship that could have destroyed both our lives.
To every woman reading this: love yourself first. Respect yourself, know your worth, and never settle for less. You deserve love, respect, and kindness every day. Do not let anyone destroy your dreams, your life, or your spirit. You are worth it. Your life is worth it.
