IN THE SHADOWS OF CHILDHOOD

I don't remember the first time my heart broke—only that it never fully healed. It cracked in pieces, slowly, like splintered glass beneath the weight of too many promises broken and too many nights spent hoping for a mother who never came.

My mother was a drunk. But not the kind you see in movies—the funny, bumbling kind who slurs her words and dances on tables. No, when the bottle took hold of her, it was as if demons had crawled into her skin, hijacked her soul, and left only venom behind. She'd look at me with hollow eyes, not a trace of tenderness, and I'd wonder if she even saw me or just the ghost of the life she thought she was owed.

She married seven times. Seven men. Seven sets of vows spoken and broken like the empty beer bottles that clattered across the floor of our kitchen. I learned early that love was something unstable, violent even. I flinched at raised voices, tiptoed around moods, and memorized the sounds of footsteps—who was walking toward me, and how fast.

My stepdad, too, drowned himself in liquor. His love came in curses, his affection with the back of a hand or worse—silence. A silence so loud it buried me.

I WAS JUST A KID TRYING TO MATTER.

In a house filled with chaos, I became invisible. I learned not to cry. Not to speak unless spoken to. I learned that being small, being quiet, being perfect—might be the only thing that kept me safe.

But even in the darkest corners of that house, I still dreamed. Dreamed of being loved, of being seen, of being rescued. I held on to those dreams like lifelines, knots I could grip with bloodied fingers when everything else was falling apart.

I didn't know it then, but I was already becoming something else—something stronger. The fire meant to destroy me was forging something fierce inside me.

WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN

To the outside world, we looked normal.

But nighttime told a different story.

I lived in that silence. I carried shame that didn't belong to me and fear that became my shadow. I felt invisible, voiceless, like no one saw the little girl screaming on the inside. I tried to protect Ashely, tried to smile like nothing was wrong, but every day was a performance, and I was losing the will to act.

During the day, my mother played the role of a picture-perfect mom. She laughed loud, cleaned up well, and smiled like our lives were one of those sweet family sitcoms. To the outside world, we were normal. We had it all. But when the sun set and the world turned its eyes away, the mask slipped, and hell came alive.

AT NIGHT, OUR HOME WAS NOT SAFE.

It became a place where secrets thrived and screams were swallowed.

The yelling, the hitting, the cold, cruel words. The hidden abuse.

The man who molested me once the lights were out and the world wasn't watching.

Dewayne, the man who held my hand at the store, tucked me in at night—and then stole my safety in the dark. He made me a prisoner in my own body.

And my mother—she didn't see it. Or maybe she chose not to.

Either way, I was alone in it.