At my baby shower, when I was eight months pregnant, my friends raised $47,000 to help me pay medical expenses. As soon as my mother saw the donation box, she was overcome by greed and tried to snatch it straight off the table. When I tried to stop her, she grabbed a heavy iron bar that was part of the decoration and struck my pregnant belly so hard that my water broke instantly. The pain was unbearable, and I lost consciousness.
My baby shower was held on a Saturday afternoon at the community hall in 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 medical visits and mounting bills. So, without telling me beforehand, they decided to organize a fundraising collection. At the end of the afternoon, when they opened the donation box, someone counted the money out loud: $47,000. I covered my mouth with my hands, crying with emotion. I never imagined such generosity.
That was when I noticed my mother’s expression—Carmen.
Until then she had remained seated in a corner, criticizing the decorations and complaining about the noise. Her eyes locked onto the box as if nothing else existed in the room. She stood up abruptly, walked toward the table, and without saying a word tried to grab the box and stuff it into her purse.
Instinctively, I stepped in front of her. “Mom, that money is for my medical expenses,” I said, trying to stay calm. She looked at me with contempt and replied that I was her daughter and that everything of mine was also hers. My friends moved closer, tense. The atmosphere became suffocating.
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 belly—a sharp pain that knocked the air out of me. I heard screams, but they seemed far away. The floor became wet as my water broke immediately. Panic took over the room.
I doubled over, unable to stay on my feet. Laura called emergency services while Inés sobbed uncontrollably. I could only think about my baby. The pain was unbearable, and before I lost consciousness I saw my mother stepping back, pale, as if she had only just understood what she had done. Everything went black amid chaos and desperate cries.
I woke up in the hospital under white lights and the constant sound 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. A doctor came in shortly afterward and explained, carefully, that they had had to perform an emergency cesarean section. Our son, Daniel, had been born prematurely and was in intensive care, fighting for his life.
In the days that followed, I lived between hope and fear.
Daniel was tiny, fragile, covered in wires. Each 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 recorded as an assault.
The police took my statement from my hospital bed. My friends confirmed what had happened and handed over videos of the event. Carmen was arrested that very night. Even so, 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 had always minimized her abuse, telling myself, “That’s just how she is.”
Medical expenses increased quickly, but my friends’ fundraiser was a real lifeline. Every euro went toward treatments, medications, and extending my stay close to Daniel’s incubator. The community rallied in support; neighbors I barely knew sent messages of encouragement.
After weeks of anguish, Daniel began to stabilize.
The day I was able to hold him in my arms for the first time, I felt a mix of relief and determination. I could not allow my mother’s violence to continue defining my life or my son’s. With legal help, I requested a restraining order and prepared for a difficult trial.
When we finally left the hospital, I was not the same person who had gone in. I had lost my innocence but gained a strength I didn’t know I had.
The trial was hard but necessary. Carmen tried to justify herself, spoke of stress and misunderstandings, and even blamed me for “provoking” her. However, the evidence was clear and the testimonies compelling. The judge handed down a conviction for aggravated assault and confirmed a permanent restraining order. I felt sadness, yes—but also a deep peace. Protecting my son was now my absolute priority.
Today, Daniel is two years old. He is a happy, curious child, full of life. Every time I see him running in the park, I remember how close we came to losing him. My relationship with my mother is broken, and I accepted that not everyone who gives us life knows how to care for it. I learned that setting boundaries is not betrayal—it is survival.
Over time, I turned this experience into something more.
I began working with organizations that support women who are victims of family violence. Telling my story is not easy, but I know it can help others recognize danger signs and seek help in time. Shame should not be our burden.
To my friends, I owe more than money; I owe them for acting when I couldn’t. They saved my son in more ways than they can imagine. True solidarity changes destinies.
If you’ve made it this far, perhaps this story has stirred something in you. Maybe you know someone living a similar situation, or maybe you are living it yourself. Speaking up, sharing, and supporting one another can make a 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—no matter who it comes from. Your voice matters.