That was all it took. Her stare sliced through the room’s chaos and landed squarely on me. It said everything without saying a word: Do not embarrass me. Do not ask for anything. Be a good girl. Leave me alone.

So, I kept moving.

It was like being trapped inside a feeling I couldn’t name, watching the world happen in front of me while my body stayed still and my mind split in two—one part trying to be good, the other quietly taking notes. I saw everything. I saw how she leaned just a little too hard into the conversation and smiled too brightly and laughed too loudly, trying to blend in. I saw the way people looked at her and how she craved it. I noticed the subtle tension in her jaw when she saw me, how I shattered her image by simply existing.

I never knew how to be around her. The apartment looked like home, but it never felt that way. There was always this tension, like I was out of place, expected to be someone I didn’t recognize.

That version of my parents—those who knew how to charm a room, make people laugh, and pass joints and compliments like it was second nature—lingered in the back of my mind, making me question which version of them was the lie.

Because, well…I never got to experience them that way. I watched from the corners, where forgetting felt safer than being seen. It puzzled me. How could they be so soft, generous, and magnetic…with everyone but me?

The version I got was something else entirely.

She didn’t say much the next morning—just lit a cigarette, blew the smoke in my direction, and said their friends respected them, so I should too, that I should know how to act. Her voice was soft, but the message hit hard. She scolded me for the look on my face, even though I wasn’t aware I had one. She accused me of judging her, being ungrateful, and making her feel small. And I just stood there, blinking, not understanding what I had done.

She wouldn’t explain. She just shut down. Became quiet. Disappeared in plain sight.

Later, when she was curled up next to my father on the couch, I walked past on my way to the bathroom, and she glared at me like I’d broken something sacred. I could hear her muttering to him in clipped tones, just loud enough: how I disrespected her, how I owed her an apology. My father turned to me, his face hardened with disgust. “Apologize to your mother.”

And I did. Of course I did. What else was I supposed to do? It was just the three of us, and it felt like they were against me then. I didn’t want to be an outcast. I didn’t want to be alone. So, I stood there, toes curled, holding my pee, and said sorry—just like that. My mother barely smiled. She squinted like she was inspecting me and said it didn’t feel genuine. “You need to be clear about what you’re sorry for,” she said. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

She went on about kindness. About how it mattered more than anything. I’d never have friends if I didn’t learn how to treat people better. And in that moment, I believed her. Not because I understood, but because I didn’t understand anything else.

As I grew older and changed—breasts forming, hips widening—I felt something shift in the house. It wasn’t just puberty; it was a quiet war. Like my becoming a woman made them flinch. They weren’t nurturing me through it. They were reacting to it—coldly, harshly, like it made me harder to love. Puberty didn’t just change my body—it cracked the entire atmosphere at home. My parents grew distant, irritated that I was becoming someone they didn’t recognize.

The shift in our dynamic was undeniable, but it was my fault, to them. They treated me like I was the one who had broken something between us. They said that I wasn’t respectful anymore, that I had an attitude. But what I really had were questions, feelings, and curiosity.

As I started to feel my changes, my mother clung to her philosophy of kindness and connection like a lifeline, preaching it to me as if it were gospel, while preventing me from ever having the chance to experience it.  Instead, they were the only relationships I knew.

If you watched my father and I in public, you’d think we were close. He’d beam in checkout lines, telling cashiers, “She’s a writer,” though he never read a single word. I played my part—I always did. I smiled, nodded, and said the right things. It’s like I was wired to know my role. At home, that pride disappeared. So did I.

My mother and I had our cycle—one I didn’t recognize as manipulation until much later. When my father was out, I was her stand-in. Her voice softened, her eyes looked gentler, and she’d treat me like one of her friends she didn’t want to lose. And I fell for it, every time.

I won’t lie—I cherished the rare softness they gave me. It made me feel visible. But when things snapped back, I felt lower than before—like I’d broken some unspoken rule. I’d linger there, unsure of what I’d done, quietly waiting for whatever part of me they liked to return. I didn’t just miss their warmth—I missed the version of myself they allowed to exist.

By the time I got to high school—far enough from home to breathe a little—I started to feel like a bird finally testing the edges of the cage. Not flying, exactly. Just stretching. That’s when the shift started, and I began to make friends. That’s when I started lying about after-school programs to have time to myself. Time to be with people who didn’t know my home life, and didn’t have to. I’d tag along to their houses, sit quietly at their dinner tables, watching entire families laugh and talk and eat together like the most natural thing in the world. I was shocked, yes—but more than anything, I was jealous.

Being around their lives was like stepping into fresh air. I hadn’t realized how long I’d been holding my breath until I finally exhaled. Looking back now, it’s almost a blessing that my parents weren’t truly involved in my life, because they didn’t notice when I started building a secret one. But with that freedom came fear. There was constant tension in my body; my chest was tight even when I was only walking back home.

What was I so afraid of? That they’d beat me? Absolutely. That they’d stop speaking to me? Of course. But it wasn’t just that. It was the fear of their discovering that I had a whole world they weren’t part of. A version of myself that wasn’t born from their beliefs or rules. And somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing them as just my parents and started seeing them as people. Flawed, fragile, and defensive. Maybe that’s why they always seemed on edge—because they knew the moment I truly saw them, I might not love them the same. And if they could treat me like that when I was still harmless, still naive, I couldn’t begin to imagine what they’d do once they realized I finally saw through it all.

That fear didn’t stop me, though, not really. It just shape-shifted—morphed into extreme guilt. The guilt rewrote my self-image entirely. Their opinions of me became my own. Every time I thought of them, I felt smaller.

It was like two versions of me were growing in opposite directions. At home, I still tiptoed. I still craved their approval, still tried to make myself even smaller to avoid their disappointment. But outside that house, especially once I started working, it was like slipping through a hidden door. And through it, I felt like I was reclaiming small pieces of myself. Smiling for real and breathing for real.

That other world kept expanding—and secretly, I loved it. But the feeling, or better yet, knowing that I was a heartless daughter, never left the side of my mind. I still reached for them, still tried to be who they wanted. But doing that meant erasing parts of myself. And at some point, I couldn’t tell if I was living for them, against them, or for myself.

The stress of it all settled in my bones until staying started to feel more dangerous than leaving. So, I left with nothing but the certainty that I had to go. That same day, my mother told my father, “She’ll be back.” And honestly, I believed her. But I didn’t care. I moved two hours away, alone in a tiny apartment. I felt like the worst daughter in the world—and still, I savored every second. Watching TV in silence, staring at the screen, not realizing I was quietly, deeply depressed.

I was lost. Confused in the way I had always been. But this time, I was hiding from it, and nothing could convince me to come out. And when the lease ended, just like my mother predicted, I returned. It felt like gravity. Like they had some invisible tether in my life, but this time, the control was different—worse. She was direct. Cruel in a way she hadn’t dared to be before. She needed me to know that life without her was not possible. As she said it, she smirked like she’d rehearsed the line a thousand times: “You left. You failed. You came back. That says everything, doesn’t it?”

And I felt it. Both of us felt it. The child in me believed her. The intuitive part—the piece of me I was beginning to trust—knew I had to get far away from that energy. After months of suffocating, I made another decision: I chose homelessness over that place.

I lived on the train. I job-hunted at public libraries. I was lucky, and I was relentless. I got a job. Saved money. Found a small room to rent. It took a couple of months before I reached out to them again. And when I did, they were offended. Furious, even. That I’d dared to cut them off. That I’d lived without them. From that point forward, the dynamic was set: I was the ungrateful, heartless daughter, and they were the victims of my betrayal.

I only visited on major holidays—Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Christmas—not out of love but out of fear—fear of how bad things might get if I didn’t.

Meanwhile, my life mirrored the chaos I had grown up with. Toxic relationships, the constant panic of survival. All the dysfunction I had soaked in for years had followed me into adulthood, and I didn’t know how to stop repeating the pattern. But the universe had a plan for me somewhere in all that noise. It sent me someone I didn’t expect to be my soulmate. He wasn’t just someone new—he was my mirror and my opposite, all at once. We fell in love deeply—in a way I hadn’t even known existed.

That love made me question everything—it made me look up, look higher, wonder how someone like me could carry love like that. It cracked open questions I was never allowed to ask—about life, existence, and my soul. And with every answer, I saw myself more clearly. I saw my story. I saw the world I came from—and for the first time, I could admit just how trapped I had felt in it.

He saw it too—and that helped. My mind was built around their voices, their rules. And that was when I started learning about the mind. About trauma. About the subconscious. I knew what it would take to regain control from them—not just of my life, but of myself.

Choosing myself felt like tearing down my whole reality. That’s how I became different—someone my parents could no longer reach. It felt like relearning how to live. Each step forward was an uphill climb, but it was mine- my life, path, and becoming. The more I chose myself, the more peace chose me back.

I was now a wife. A soon-to-be mother. Pregnant with twins and filled with new wisdom. I could not let the pain I had lived through pass into their little hearts. No matter how hard it got, I knew my babies deserved a beginning that wasn’t haunted. That became my purpose. My focus. My line in the sand. It was no longer about choosing between my parents and me but about choosing the kind of world my children would be born into.

This new version of me was finally in control, but the little girl in me was still there. I could feel her, quiet but wide-eyed, hoping this time would be different. And somehow, between her hope and everything I’d come to understand, a part of me still wanted to believe in them. I let them in. I let them meet the me I had fought so hard to become. But during my pregnancy, they only reminded me of what I had always tried not to see: they would never change. They couldn’t.

That moment told me everything I needed to know.

It’s been three years of silence, no contact, no photos, no names shared. In those three years, I’ve become who I was meant to be, not who I was made to be. Through all the struggle, I’ve learned my worth. I’ve learned about my soul, my mind, and how much power I hold. The toxic lessons of my childhood only built the strength I carry now. I’ve walked through hell and come out loving the woman who survived it. She’s more than I ever thought I could be.