The house I grew up in was filled with dull walls, aging furniture, and a constant tension that made me feel responsible just for existing. If I breathed too loudly, I was corrected. If I moved too slowly, I was criticized. If I spoke without permission, I was accused of thinking too highly of myself.
My “father,” Gordon Collins, came home late most nights. The sound of his truck crunching over gravel always made my stomach tighten. My “mother,” Elaine, never raised her voice—she didn’t need to. Her words cut cleanly enough on their own.
I learned to walk softly. To wash dishes without noise. To disappear into corners when the mood shifted. I learned that being invisible was safer than being noticed.
“You take up too much space,” Elaine would say, watching me as though my presence alone irritated her. “Be useful—or don’t bother being here.”
Everyone in town sensed something was wrong. No one ever asked.