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TV personality Bobby Flay is at the 2025 US Open Tennis Championships at USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center in Flushing Meadows, New York City. on September 4 | Source: Getty Images
My breath hitched. My first child? I was an only child. I’d always been an only child. The lawyer saw my confusion. He explained, gently, carefully, what I should have been told years ago. My parent had another child, a daughter, before me. My older sister. She had been taken. Abducted from a playground, barely out of my parent’s sight for five minutes. Never found. The police had dismissed it as a tragic accident, a moment of lapsed vigilance. But my parent never forgave themselves. Never stopped searching. And never, ever stopped believing that if they had just been stricter, if they had just enforced more rules, if they had just been more controlling, my sister would still be here.
The rules. The absolute, unbending, suffocating rules. They weren’t about control, not in the way I understood it. They were about fear. Terror. A desperate, traumatized parent trying to build an impenetrable fortress around the only child they had left. Every curfew, every vetted friend, every “because I said so” wasn’t a dismissal of my autonomy, but a desperate, silent scream: “I CANNOT LOSE YOU TOO!”
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