I was already anxious walking into my parents’ backyard that day. Every time I forced myself to show up, I told myself: “Be neutral. Be calm. Keep distance. Keep your guard up.”
I was 29, a grown woman, a single mom to an 8-year-old little girl named Haley. My whole goal was to protect her from everything I lived through.
My parents always made it sound like I was being dramatic, like I was inventing trauma, because “normal families fight sometimes.” But my parents never fought my sister, Rachel. They fought me. They punished me. They belittled me. Rachel was the golden one. Rachel was treated like royalty since birth.
We were at the backyard BBQ that afternoon because my mom guilted me into it. She said, “People are noticing how distant
you are. Don’t embarrass us just because you can’t move on from childhood nonsense.”
Childhood nonsense. That’s what they call years of humiliation.
Haley was standing next to me in her little pink hoodie and jeans, having just come from dance practice. She still thought she’d get burgers and play with cousins.
