When love turned, it's back

After being together with my wife for almost seven years, I didn’t expect that it would end over a single misunderstanding,one accusation enough to destroy everything we shared. I was blamed for killing my own mother and my mother-in-law, a crimes I never committed. Zephanie’s eyes were burning with rage. “You’re disgusting,” she said.“You bastard. I gave you my whole life.I trusted you with everything I had, and this is what you do? You killed my mom. You killed your own mother. What kind of man are you?” My knees almost gave way. “Zephanie, please,” I begged, stepping closer. “I swear on my life, I didn’t do it. I would never—”She slap me hard “Shut up!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare say my name. Don’t you dare lie to me!” Tears streamed down her face, but her voice was sharp and merciless. “I defended you to my family. I chose you over everyone else. And now I look like a fool. You ruined me. You ruined us.” “I’m innocent,” I cried, my voice cracking. “Please listen to me just once. Look at me. You know me. You married me. You know I could never hurt anyone. “I don’t know you anymore,” she said. “The man I loved is dead. All I see now is a murderer standing in front of me.” Those words crushed me. “I loved you,” she continued, pointing at my chest. “But now I hate you with everything in me. If you have even a little shame left, disappear from my life. Rot in jail for all I care.” I reached out to her, my hands shaking. “Please… don’t leave me like this.” She slapped my hand away. “Stay away from me,” she said. “If I ever see you again, I will be the one who's going to kill you and make you suffer like what you did to my mom. That was the moment my world truly collapsed, not when the police arrive at Zephanie's place and they handcuff me around my wrists. The woman who once held my hand through college corridors now looked at me with fear and hatred. She didn’t ask me what really happened. She didn’t wait for the truth. She walked away, leaving me alone with the weight of accusations I could not escape. As I was dragged to the police station I was treated harshly. My wrists burned from the handcuffs, my head spinning as voices echoed around me—too many questions being asked. “I didn’t do it,” I kept saying. “Please, listen to me. I swear I’m innocent.” No one listened.Every answer I gave was twisted. Every tear I shed was seen as an act. Then my family arrived. The moment I opened my mouth to explain, my brother’s hand crashed into my face. “You liar!” he shouted. “After all these years, you still dare pretend?” Before I could even speak, my sister slapped me hard across the face.“For all these years, you’re the one who killed Mom,” she cried, her voice shaking with rage. “You’re such a big liar, Axcel. You lived comfortably while she suffered—and now you play the victim?” “I didn’t kill her,” I sobbed. “Please… she was my mother too.”You all knew that both of us got kidnap and locked by that jerk Robert. That was when my father finally moved. He walked toward me slowly, his face dark with fury.Without saying a word, he punched me harder than anyone ever had. The force sent me crashing to the ground. My vision blurred. I couldn’t breathe. “You don’t deserve to call her your mother,” he said coldly. “You’re nothing but a disgrace to this family.” I tried to get up, but my body wouldn’t obey me. Then he grabbed a wooden chair. For a second, I thought he would stop. That he would remember I was his son. He didn’t.He raised the chair and slammed it down on me. The sound echoed through the room—wood breaking, my body screaming in pain. I curled on the floor, protecting my head, gasping, shaking, completely helpless. No one stopped him.The police watched.My family watched. And I lay there, broken on the ground, feeling the pain,and realizing that the people who should have protected me were the same ones destroying me and turning their back against me. I was thrown at the cell like I was nothing. My body hit the cold concrete floor.My ribs ached where the chair had struck me, my head throbbing, blood still warm on my lips. I was alone. The cell smelled of rust, sweat, and despair.I tried to sit up, but the pain through my body forced me back down.I curled into myself, clutching my side, struggling to breathe. I called out for help when the dizziness grew worse, when my vision blurred and my ears rang. No one came. My voice echoed back to me, weak and useless. I stared at the ceiling, tears slipping silently into my hair. I thought of my mother—her voice, her smile, the way she used to call my name. I thought of Zephanie, of how her hand once fit perfectly in mine, how she promised never to leave. “I didn’t do it,” I whispered into the darkness. “I swear… I didn’t.” The walls didn’t answer. Eyes followed me whenever I moved—when I stood, when I sat, when I tried to sleep. Whispers filled the corners of the cellblock. They knew why I was there. “Mother killer,” someone muttered. I kept my head down. I didn’t fight back. I didn’t even speak.That’s why they chose me as their target. One night,hands grabbed me from behind. I was dragged into a dark corner before I could react. The first punch landed on my ribs—the same spot where the chair had broken me. I gasped,collapsing to my knees. “You think you’re innocent?” one of them laughed. “You rich boys always say that.” Another kick slammed into my back. Then another.I tried to protect my head, but they kept going. Someone slammed my face against the wall. I tasted blood again. “I didn’t do it,” I choked. “Please… I swear…please stop" I said but they laughed harder. Pain exploded everywhere my chest, my stomach, and my legs.I felt something crack.my ears ringing so loud I thought I’d go deaf. I woke up to blinding white light and the sharp sting of needles.My body felt heavy, numb, like it didn’t belong to me anymore. Machines beeped beside me. A nurse spoke softly, but I couldn’t understand the words at first. “He’s lucky to be alive,” someone said. " Lucky" words that keeps reapting on my mind. I had fractured ribs, internal bruising, a concussion. My face was swollen beyond recognition.I caught myself in the small mirror by the bed, I didn’t recognize the man staring back. I stayed in the hospital for days. No visitors came.Not my father.Not my siblings. Not my wife. I stared at the ceiling at night, listening to the sound of the machines, wondering if dying would have been easier than surviving like this. Almost a year passed time didn’t heal anything—it only repeated the pain. The beatings never stopped against me .My body became familiar with hospital beds. White sheets. The smell of antiseptic. Nurses who no longer looked surprised when they saw me brought in again bruised, bleeding, barely conscious. “He’s back,” they would say softly. Cracked ribs healed only to be broken again. My head throbbed constantly. My vision blurred more often than not. I stopped asking how bad the injuries were because the answer was always the same: bad enough to survive, never bad enough to escape.