Growing up in Lakeside, Michigan, looked like a postcard on the surface. We had all the small-town charm, apple festivals, Friday night football, neighbors who knew your business before you did. But behind our faded blue house with its sagging porch, my family life was anything but idyllic.

My mother, Patricia, barely five-foot-three, was the undisputed queen of our chaos. What she lacked in height, she made up for in the sharp, stinging whip of her words. She had this particular talent for making me feel like an utter inconvenience, a constant burden from my earliest memories. My father, Robert, was her polar opposite—tall, soft-spoken, and perpetually exhausted from his factory job. He chose peace at any price, even if that price was his own backbone.

And then there was Stephanie, my younger sister, born three years after me with those perfect golden curls and an uncanny ability to effortlessly work our family system to her advantage.