Every day was a battle. Silent stares at the dinner table. Doors slammed in my face. Whispers I wasn’t meant to hear, about how I’d never be her. About how I didn’t understand. And they were right, in a way. I didn’t understand their particular brand of grief. But I understood loss. I understood the ache of an empty space. And I understood the fierce, unyielding need to protect a child. Even if that child hated you.
There were so many nights I cried into my pillow, the sound muffled so he wouldn’t hear. What was I doing? Was I insane? Why was I putting myself through this agony? It felt like pouring my entire soul into a bottomless pit. Every kind gesture, every sacrifice, every late-night comfort—met with a shrug, a sneer, or worse, utter indifference. I missed holidays because they refused to spend them with me. I spent thousands on things they demanded, only for them to discard them the next day. I watched their father struggle, torn between his new wife and his devastated children, and I always, always told him to side with them. They needed him more.
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