How can i tell my girl Daddy’s a monster?

Kissing my new fella Jason goodbye, I closed the door and turned to my dad.

‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked. ‘He’s not your usual type!’ Dad said with a smile. ‘You’re not wrong,’ I laughed. My dad Steven, 50, was used to seeing me with scruffy teenagers. No wonder he was impressed with Jason’s smart shirt and shiny shoes. ‘And the age gap?’ I asked. At 26, Jason was eight years older than me.

‘He seems mature – just what you need,’ Dad said. Having his approval felt great. Meeting Jason through mutual friends in September 2015, I’d already felt so lucky. Handsome and caring, he’d buy me flowers and take me out for romantic meals. ‘You’re so beautiful, Sarah,’ he’d tell me.

I had a job in a care home, but after work I’d sit in the pub where Jason was a barman. Even when he was serving customers, he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

I’d found my Prince Charming and was totally, head-over-heels in love. Within weeks, I’d moved in to his flat.

‘It’s the happiest I’ve ever seen you,’ Dad said, when I popped round.

‘He’s really looking after me,’ I promised him. Even when I went out with friends, Jason would check where I was going and who I was with.

‘I need to know you’re safe,’ he said to me. Then in February 2016, I fell pregnant.

It was shock, because I had polycystic ovaries. ‘I’m sorry,’ I sobbed to Jason.

I was 19, we’d only been together five months and we hadn’t talked about kids. Jason took my hand. ‘I’m over the moon,’ he smiled to me. And then, all of a sudden, so was I. That Valentine’s Day, Jason surprised me with a 4D ultrasound scan at a private clinic.

As soon as I saw the tiny little pumping heart on the screen, tears began rolling down my cheeks.

‘You’re seven weeks pregnant,’ the sonographer told us.

‘We’ll be a proper family,’ grinned Jason.

A few weeks later, Jason went out with his mates.

‘I’ll be home by 10pm,’ he promised.

I spent the night watching telly and, by midnight, I was ready for bed.

But Jason still wasn’t home. I’d sent him a few texts but had got no answer. It wasn’t on.

Hormones raging, I threw on my clothes and stalked round to the pub.

I found Jason sitting there, talking to two women.

‘What are you doing here?’ he spat, his face darkening. It was a look I didn’t recognise.

I froze for a moment. Then I turned and fled from the pub.

I was almost home, when Jason caught me up, cornering me in our flat’s stairwell.

But rather than offering apologies, he was livid.

‘Are you stupid?’ he screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth.

My heart hammered. I was scared. Of my own boyfriend.

I backed away and turned to run upstairs.

Then two hands were on the small of my back, sending me lurching forwards on to the cold, hard steps.

‘Ouch!’ I cried out, as I felt the concrete bite into my

ribs. Then I heard two icy words. ‘You bitch.’ Adrenalin propelled me into the flat and I slammed the bedroom door.

I shook as I waited, but Jason didn’t come in. Instead, he rampaged around the flat, swearing, punching the walls. Then, silence.

He’d passed out on the sofa. That night I barely slept. I’d seen a side of Jason that I never wanted to see again.

The next morning, he didn’t stop apologising.

‘It was the drink,’ he said. He swore he’d stop boozing, so I forgave him and, for a few weeks, things were OK. Then he began constantly picking on me.

‘What are you wearing all that make-up for?’ he raged.

And he started moaning every time I left the house.

‘Wouldn’t you rather be with me?’ he’d ask.

He’d pick up my phone and go through my messages.

‘I’m eight months pregnant!’ I spluttered.

What did he think I was going to do – run off with another man?

Despite everything he’d put me through, I only wanted him – the old Jason – back.

Finally, that October, I gave birth to our daughter Amiyah. Jason was by my side, smitten.

And, suddenly, it was as though our bad patch was over.

He was such a great dad, getting up for night feeds and changing nappies.

When Amiyah was a couple of months old, Dad offered to babysit for us.

Jason took me to dinner, then we went on to a bar for drinks.

But, as Jason downed pint after pint, his expression began to change.

‘Stop looking at other men,’ he snarled at me.

The old fear rose up again – I remembered the last time…

‘I’m going home,’ I said. But Jason followed me, spitting abuse at me.

On a quiet road, he suddenly grabbed my arm and pinned me against a wall.

His eyes looked crazy as he began squeezing my neck.

I was fighting to get my breath, terrified. Then his grip loosened. ‘You’re not worth it,’ he scowled, and walked away.

Right then, I knew it was over. I had to get out, for Amiyah’s sake.

But leaving was so scary. Collecting Amiyah from Dad’s, I said nothing about Jason’s attack.

It took me another three months to pluck up the courage to leave.

But, in March 2017, I packed some things and took Amiyah to a friend’s.

Jason texted constantly, begging me to come back.

He’s not the man I thought he was, I sobbed to myself.

Weeks later, in April 2017, I needed to get the rest of Amiyah’s toys from the flat.

Jason promised he’d go to his mum’s, but when I got there he was waiting for me.

‘Let me stay and spend time with Amiyah,’ he begged. Wearily, I agreed. The first night was fine, but on the second, the rows started again.

I stepped into the stairwell to smoke, to let things cool down.

But Jason followed me out there, his face twisted with rage.

‘What are you doing to me?’ he yelled furiously.

And then pain and a thousand stars exploded, as he head-butted me in the face.

Blood sprayed across the stairs, as I felt my knees buckle under me.

Cowering, with my arms over my head, I begged him to stop.

But punches and kicks rained down on me from every angle.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, as I started screaming for help. I couldn’t open my eyes, but I felt Jason’s hands grab my hair and start dragging me back into the flat.

He threw me against the wall. And, with that, he left.

As I lay, my battered face pressed against the living room carpet, I heard Amiyah crying in her room.

In agony, I could see my own blood above me on the walls. But I couldn’t move. Thankfully, moments later, the police stormed in. A neighbour had called them. I was taken to Heath Hospital and a nurse looked after little Amiyah while I was being treated.

My forehead had burst open, leaving a gaping hole over my eyebrow.

I needed 30 stitches, had a broken nose and badly bruised ribs, and would need surgery on my left eye. Jason was arrested.

The couple of months before the trial were gruelling. I suffered anxiety, depression and nightmares, and was scared to be at home alone.

In September 2017, at Cardiff Crown Court, Jason Dean Takata, 28, pleaded guilty to two counts of grievous bodily harm.

He was jailed for 10 years. A restraining order was also imposed to stop him having any unauthorised contact with me.

While my physical injuries have healed, the emotional scars run deep.

Jason is the father of my beautiful daughter. She’s 16 months now. Soon she’ll be asking about her daddy. How can I tell her the truth? That her daddy isn’t the Prince Charming I once thought he was.

Daddy is a monster.

Cowering, with my arms over my head, I begged him to stop