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family. It was almost surreal to hear these loving messages from him, relayed through my mum. It was everything I wanted to hear from the man I married, the father of my unborn child ... It almost erased the hurt I had suffered at his hands and with his words. He said he would change, that he would never be the monster he had been. He said that he would never touch me again, that he would get the help he needed to control his anger.
    “I promise, I will go for anger management, doll. We can start a new life together, me, you and our baby. Maybe we could have more kids up in Edinburgh. We could even get married, doll. Give me a chance to make it right. You can trust me, doll. I’ll do better. I will never lift my hands to you ever again. I made a mistake, but I promise you can trust me, doll.”
    Those words, ‘you can trust me,’ some can say it so effortlessly, so reassuringly, that I all but forgot that last horrific day. And, of course, I thought that I loved him, so I should trust him, right? Loving him meant that I should give him another chance.
     

 
    When the time came to explain, I told my mum about my decision to give things another try. She was so upset, heartbroken. She gave me this beautiful gold chain with a gold cross on it for my birthday, and said she had had it blessed by a priest and prayed over it that it would give protection to me and my baby girl. She cried, said she would do anything to keep me safe even if it was a long shot.
    She thought I shouldn’t have had to spend my twenty-first birthday on my own, wondering where I was going to end up. Tears fell down her face, and she told me that if I ever needed anything at all she would be there for me no matter what.
    “You know where I am. Call me anytime my darling girl, day or night, if you need me.”
    I felt like I was saying goodbye to her for the last time, it felt like I would never see her again.
    I was so emotional on the way back up to Edinburgh, feeling scared and conflicted with my feelings. Do I stop and turn back? Go home back to my mum? Or do I take a chance? He sounded so sincere when he promised me he was going to change. Was I really going through with this?
    I cried; the tears flowed down my cheeks as I stared out of the train window. Heartache, feeling torn causing the tears to stain my face. I was six-and-a-half months pregnant. I was tired beyond tired and so confused. I felt so alone.
    I was back at Ian’s mum’s house in no time at all. Everyone commented on how much my bump was showing. There was no animosity towards me for trying to have him arrested, and running for the hills. I think deep down they knew what he was like but turned a blind eye to all that he had done.
    Things were good, for a couple of weeks at least. I started getting things organised for my baby’s arrival. Ian’s mum’s extended family were really friendly; they helped me out as much as they could, I was so grateful. Of course, they didn’t know the ins and outs of what was going on; they knew he was a wrongun, a bad boy always in trouble in some way or another. They didn’t see the bruises I wore. I learned to hide and cover them up so well, and his mother didn’t speak to them about the truth. It wasn’t long before I was being pushed against the wall with Ian’s hands around my neck once more . He ripped the chain that my mum had bought for me from my neck, which hurt me more than getting beaten .
    I tried to fight him off of me for the baby’s sake, but he was so strong. He would snarl at me. “You’ve been shagging about while you’ve been in Manchester, haven't you? You bitch . You dirty fucking whore.”
    He roared, spitting in my face like a wild dog about to pounce on its prey.
    “No,don’t be stupid.”
    I spit back in his angry face, which was answered with his fist right into my jaw. I felt my head hit the wall behind me. Standing up for myself I shouted at him to stop, but that only brought on more punches; even after I was