I never do things like this. I don’t ask for help. I don’t tell people my business. I learned a long time ago to keep my head down and survive.

But I’m tired. I’m from Haiti. I came to this country believing that if I worked hard and followed the rules, my son and I could have a better life. Instead, I’ve spent years living in fear.

The man I’m with works in law enforcement. Everybody sees him as the good guy. The man with the badge. The man people trust. When people look at him, they see authority. When they look at me, they see a Black immigrant woman who’s emotional, angry, or unstable.

That’s how he likes it. Because he knows nobody questions him. For years he has reminded me of that. Every single day he threatens to call ICE on me. Every day. Not because I’ve done anything wrong. Not because I’ve committed a crime. He says it because he knows it terrifies me.

He knows what fear looks like. He knows what happens to people when they believe they could lose everything. Whenever I talk about leaving, whenever I talk about getting help, whenever I talk about protecting myself or my son, he reminds me that one phone call could destroy my life. So I stay quiet. Not because I’m weak. Because I’m scared. He tells me nobody else will ever love me. He calls me the N-word. He calls me a , a slut, a . He tears me apart piece by piece and then laughs when I cry.

“It’s freedom of speech,” he says.

Like that makes it okay. We have a baby together. A newborn son. My entire world. Lately things have been getting worse. He throws things. Breaks things. Punches walls. Smashes mirrors. And every time I hear glass shatter, I look over at my baby and wonder how much longer it will be before something worse happens. He tells me if I leave, he’ll find me. Sometimes he smiles when he says it. Sometimes he laughs. But I’ve learned that the things he says jokingly are usually the things he means the most. The money is another way he controls me.

People always say, “Why don’t you just leave?” Leave and go where? I don’t have family here.

I don’t have resources. I don’t have money hidden away somewhere. One day we ran out of baby formula. My son needed to eat. I used our joint credit card to buy formula for our child. He exploded. He destroyed mirrors in the house and threatened to have me arrested for credit card fraud because I bought food for our baby.

Sometimes while I’m trying to put the baby to sleep, he’ll stand in the doorway and start arguments on purpose. He tells me I’m not going to sleep. He tells me he’s going to make me miserable. He tells me that’s exactly what I deserve. Then he says he wants me to leave. But he knows I have nowhere to go. That’s the cruelest part. He creates the cage and then mocks me for being trapped inside it. I have pictures. I have videos. I have evidence. But the shame is heavy. The fear is heavy. And every time someone asks me to tell the story again, I have to relive it all over again.

I’m already carrying trauma. I’m already carrying PTSD. I’m already trying to figure out how to be a mother while surviving the hardest period of my life. I’m exhausted. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind of tired that settles into your bones. The kind of tired that comes from living every day in survival mode. I don’t need someone to tell me this is abuse. I already know what it is. I just need someone to see me. To believe me. And to help me find a way out before my son grows up believing that fear is what love looks like.