On Christmas, my own husband pushed me off a 5th-floor balcony, while I was pregnant. I survived, because I landed on my ex’s car. When I woke up, I knew one thing: I will expose him.
Christmas Eve was supposed to be quiet. Snow rested lightly on the railings of our fifth-floor apartment in Denver, and the city below glowed with holiday lights. I was seven months pregnant, moving slowly, one hand always on my stomach. My husband, Daniel, stood behind me on the balcony, unusually silent. We had argued earlier…