My name is Alyona. I’m 24 years old. This story is true, horrifying, and still painful for me.
I’ve never told anyone about it before — except my closest friends and my therapist.
But today, I’ve decided to break the silence and openly share what happened to me at the most fragile age.
This is a story about love, betrayal, terror… and survival.
When I turned thirteen, my mom got remarried. My stepfather’s name was Viktor.
At first glance, he seemed like a successful man: tall, well-groomed beard, confident, stylish.
He owned a construction company, a two-story house, and drove a fancy BMW.
A month after the wedding, we moved into his home.
At first, he was friendly, almost affectionate.
He gave me a new iPhone, took me to the movies, bought me trendy clothes.
But everything changed once he realized he was now the head of the family and had power over us.
He started harassing me when my mom wasn’t around.
At first, it was “accidental” hugs, then long, uncomfortable stares.
And then something happened that I’m still afraid to talk about. It got much worse.
I was fourteen the first time it happened. I remember that day vividly.
Mom had left on a business trip for three days. Viktor said we’d have a “father-daughter night.”
He suggested we watch a movie, wrap up in a blanket, and eat popcorn.
I was naive. Or maybe just lonely.
I wanted to believe nothing bad would happen.
But instead, he locked the door and said:
“You’re so beautiful, Alyonka. You’re a woman now…”
I froze. I couldn’t scream — I was scared the neighbors might hear.
I couldn’t run — he was blocking the exit. And tell Mom?
He whispered into my face, “If you tell anyone, she’ll regret it.”
That was my first experience… Violent. Vile. Humiliating.
Afterwards, he said:
“Don’t make a big deal. This is love. Just love.”
That was the beginning of my nightmare. Every week — sometimes more often — he came into my room.
I tried locking myself in the bathroom, staying away from home, sleeping over at friends’ houses.
But he always found a way to get to me.
Viktor checked my phone, monitored my messages, looked through my browser history.
I had no one to trust. Not even my closest friend.
I wasn’t afraid for myself — I was terrified for my mother. That his threats would come true.
He kept telling me he loved me. That this was our secret.
That I belonged to him now. And I began to believe it.
When I turned sixteen, I realized something was wrong.
My period was late. I felt nauseous in the mornings. My breasts were sore.
I bought a test at the pharmacy. Two lines. I cried. I didn’t know what to do.
And him… he was pleased.
“Now you’re completely mine,” he said, hugging me.
“We’ll be a family. You’ll be my wife.”
I didn’t want this child. I wanted to run away, disappear, start a new life.
I even considered an abortion. But I had no money, and Viktor would definitely find out.
After a few months, Mom noticed something was wrong. I’d gained weight, became withdrawn, cried a lot.
She asked what was going on, and I lied — told her I got pregnant by some random guy.
She burst into tears. She didn’t believe me. For her, it was unimaginable that her husband could do such a thing.
The birth was hard. Very hard. The baby came early — a girl.
They rushed her to the ICU right away. I lay in the hospital, weak and exhausted. I didn’t know if she’d survive.
Viktor came into my room and said:
“Let’s name her Angelina. Like an angel. She’ll redeem us.”
I hated him with every fiber of my being.
Two more years passed. I raised the child alone. Lived under constant fear.
But something new began growing inside me — determination. I couldn’t endure it anymore.
I had to protect my daughter. And myself, too.
One night, I took the car keys, packed our things, and ran away.
I didn’t know where I was going — just away from him. I sent an anonymous statement to the police, attaching videos I had secretly recorded on my phone.
Every time he came into my room, I turned on the camera.
Two weeks later, they arrested him.
The trial lasted three months. I testified, presented evidence.
Old classmates and acquaintances spoke about who I was before.
Psychiatrists confirmed I had been in a state of psychological trauma. He was found guilty.
They sentenced him to twelve years in prison.
But my mom didn’t believe me. She said I made it all up, that I had provoked him.
That I destroyed their family. After that, she stopped talking to me.
She left my life suddenly — no goodbye, no explanation.
I started over from scratch. Alone. With a child.
No support from family, no friends. But I was free.
I went to school, earned a degree in psychology.
Now I work with teenagers who have experienced abuse.
I listen to them. I understand them. Because I’ve been there — invisible in my own home.
My daughter is growing up. She’s smart, kind, and full of light.
Every day, I hope I can forgive myself for not stopping it sooner.
But now I know: it wasn’t my fault.
If you’re reading this, maybe you’re going through something similar.
Maybe you feel controlled, like you’ve lost your right to choose.
Know this: you’re not alone. There are people ready to help. Organizations that support those in danger.
You have the right to say no. You have the right to be yourself. You have the right to live without fear.
If you are a victim of abuse or suspect someone around you is in danger — please, reach out for help.
Below, I’ll leave hotline numbers and websites that can save your life.
This story is a part of me. Heavy, painful, filled with fear and grief.
But I don’t want it to define who I am now.
I want it to help others.
To show that even when it feels like there’s no way out — there is. There always is.