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again.
    kicked
    One Saturday evening, not long before the baby was due, Domingo and I got into another fight. I didn’t want him to go out with a friend he always seemed to get into trouble with. I knew they would most likely be drinking and maybe hanging out with girls. Only two weeks earlier I had walked into a kitchen at a party and saw Domingo making out with another girl.
    “Why are you going, Mingo? You know I don’t want you to go.”
    He stood in the hall bathroom, fixing his hair. He said nothing, ignoring me—which infuriated me.
    “Where are you going?” I demanded. He still wouldn’t answer me. I grabbed his upper arm to get him to pay attention to me. “Why can’t you stay home? Please stay home with me.”
    Our relationship had become so caustic that it took only a split second before the anger in both of us erupted into rage-filled behavior—me with my mouth, Domingo with his strength. As he swung his arm to get me away from him, I could see the look of disgust in his eyes. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. I cried, wrenching on the ground as sobs and spasms swept over me. My body blocked his way out of the bathroom. Just before he stepped over me, he kicked me in the stomach. I don’t think he intended to hurt me. He was just so disgusted and frustrated with me.
    My sobs grew stronger, not because I was hurt, but because I felt like a piece of garbage, ugly and used, someone my husband didn’t want to be with. I just wanted to be loved. I felt he kicked me the way he would have kicked a piece of furniture he’d stubbed his toe against.
    By Monday, when the baby still hadn’t moved, I knew I had to go to the doctor. I was nervous, not knowing what to tell him. The doctor looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “Did anything happen?”
    “I fell,” I said. I figured it was sort of true. I had fallen.
    The doctor put on his stethoscope and moved it around my belly. “Yes, there’s a heartbeat,” he said, and all the tension and worry slipped out of me.
    “Sometimes the baby will get quiet and not move as much.” He set the stethoscope on the counter. “Everything is fine. But I want you to be careful.”
    The way he said it made me think the doctor knew the truth. My marriage was not good.
    birth
    “Are you coming or not?” Domingo asked, grabbing the car keys off the counter and opening the door that led to the dark winter’s night.
    “Yes, Mingo.” I sighed. “I’m coming.” I didn’t really want to go, but I didn’t want to stay home either. I didn’t feel well, but I couldn’t really describe what it was. Besides, we were only going to the house of some friends, where we’d hang out with the usual crowd.
    When we got to the house, I put my donation of guacamole and tortilla chips on the kitchen table. Domingo eyed me carefully. “What’s wrong?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t feel good.” The baby wasn’t due for a few weeks, and I was told the first baby is always late, so I just thought I was getting sick. Throughout the evening I continued to squirm—too uncomfortable to sit still and too achy to stand.
    Again he asked. Then again. I could tell he was getting frustrated with me for not telling him what was wrong. He didn’t say he was worried about me.
    Despite how badly I felt, we stayed late, then went back to our room and crawled into bed.
    In the middle of the night, something warm and wet woke me. I thought my water had broken, but when I turned on the light, all I saw was blood everywhere. When I got out of bed, I kept bleeding. Domingo called the doctor, who told him to bring me in immediately.
    At the hospital they didn’t waste any time finding me a room. Domingo sat there with me, trying to encourage me. He held my hand even though I squeezed so tightly during the contractions that I left marks on his hand. He never complained, and I could tell he felt bad for me when the pains came. I wanted to scream because it hurt so badly, but I was too