My Husband Threw Me And My Newborn Into The Rain Because I Refused To Abort Her
The rain had already started before dusk—one of those heavy, angry storms that seemed to shake the sky itself. I remember standing by the window, holding my newborn daughter to my chest, listening to the thunder roll like distant warnings. I didn’t know that within an hour, the same storm would soak us to the bone… because the man I once trusted with my life would force us out into it.
Her name was Alina. She had only been on this earth for nine days, small and fragile, her hands curling around my finger as if she feared losing me. I never imagined how close we would come to being lost—together.
My husband, Kiran, had changed the moment I told him I was pregnant. He wanted a son. He wanted “a legacy,” as he always said. When the doctor told us it was a girl, his expression had hardened like drying clay. That night, he told me plainly, without hesitation, to end the pregnancy.
I refused.
I thought love would eventually soften him. I thought holding his daughter for the first time would change something deep inside him. But his heart wasn’t a door waiting to be unlocked—it was a wall built to keep compassion out.
For nine days after Alina’s birth, there was nothing but anger in the house. He refused to touch her. He refused to speak to me unless it was to complain, argue, or remind me that I’d “ruined everything.” I cared for her alone—feeding her, rocking her, whispering to her that the world had good in it even if she hadn’t yet seen it.
On the ninth night, as the storm thickened and lightning carved sharp lines across the sky, Kiran came home late. I could smell alcohol on him before he even opened his mouth. He threw his keys onto the table, the metal clattering like tiny explosions. I had just put Alina to sleep in her blanket, humming softly so the thunder wouldn’t wake her.
He didn’t even take his shoes off before he started shouting.
“You think you won?” he growled, pointing at the crib as though it were a crime scene. “You think you can defy me and keep… that?”
My arms instinctively went around my daughter. She stirred, a small whimper escaping her lips. That sound—so pure, so innocent—only enraged him more.
“I asked you for ONE thing,” he yelled. “ONE thing, and you couldn’t do it!”
I backed away, clutching her tightly. “She’s your daughter,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice calm, though my heart pounded so loudly that it felt like it echoed through the house. “Please, don’t shout. You’ll scare her.”
That was when he flipped the table. The crash jolted the baby awake, her cry slicing through the storm outside. My instincts took over. I had to protect her. I had to make myself a shield.
But he wasn’t done.
“You want to keep her?” he shouted. “Fine. Take her and go! Get out of my house!”
Before I could even respond, he strode across the room, grabbed my arm, and yanked me toward the door. I held Alina tightly against my chest, terrified she would slip from my grasp. Rain hammered against the roof like fists, the wind howling through the cracks as if urging us to run.
“Kiran, stop!” I pleaded. “Please—she’s a newborn! She’ll get sick! Let me get her blanket—”
But he had already thrown open the door.
The cold air hit me like a slap. The rain was so heavy it stung my skin. I tried to shield Alina with my body, pulling the thin cloth of my nightdress around her, but it did nothing.
“OUT!” he roared.
And then… he pushed us.
I stumbled down the steps, nearly falling, clutching my baby with both hands. The rain soaked us instantly, turning my hair to heavy ropes and my clothes to cold, clinging weight. My daughter screamed—a tiny, panicked wail swallowed by the storm.
I turned back toward the house, hoping—hoping—that he would come to his senses, realize what he’d done, call me back inside.
But he didn’t.
He slammed the door.
The sound was final. A severing.
For a moment, I just stood there in the rain, trembling, numb. The street was empty, the storm relentless. My daughter’s cries grew softer, weaker, swallowed by her shivers. That was what broke my paralysis.
I began to walk.
Barefoot, soaked, freezing, I walked with my newborn pressed to my heart. Every step felt like dragging myself through mud, but I kept going. I had no umbrella, no coat, no bag. No phone. Just my baby. Just the will to keep her alive.
The first house I reached had no lights on. The second belonged to an elderly woman who, when she opened her door and saw us, gasped as though witnessing something impossible.
“Oh dear heavens,” she said, pulling us inside without hesitation. “Child, what happened to you?”
I couldn’t speak. The words were there, heavy, choking me. Instead, I held out my baby, whose skin had begun to turn an alarming shade of pale. The woman rushed us to her fireplace, wrapping us in blankets, rubbing the baby’s tiny hands to warm her.
She called an ambulance.
I remember paramedics lifting my daughter from my arms, checking her breaths, wrapping her in medical blankets. I remember one of them asking if someone hurt us. I remember crying—not because of the cold, but because of the truth.
Yes. Someone hurt us.
Someone who swore to protect us.
At the hospital, the doctors said Alina would be all right because we had reached help in time. She would live. She would grow.
And that was all I needed to hear.
I never went back to that house. I never looked for him. The storm of that night washed away the last of my fear, and in its place grew something stronger:
Determination.
Strength.
Motherhood.
Today, when I hold Alina and she smiles—wide, warm, beautiful—I know that choosing her was the right decision. She saved me as much as I saved her. And though our beginning was filled with rain, our future will be filled with light.
Because love, real love, is never a choice you regret.
