My mother criticizing Lily’s clothes. “She looks like a hobo. Doesn’t she have anything nice?”

My father turning up the TV when the arguments started.

Page one was filled. Then page two.

Every slight. Every veiled insult. Every time Emma dismissed Lily as “weird” or “spoiled.” Every time I had swallowed my rage, smiled, and made excuses to keep the “peace.” I had sacrificed my daughter’s self-esteem on the altar of my family’s ego.

I wrote until my hand cramped. I wrote until the sun began to bleed through the blinds, painting the kitchen in shades of gray and fire.

Back then, I had made excuses. I had told myself, They love her, they just don’t know how to show it.

I looked at the list. It was a manifesto of cruelty.

I wouldn’t make excuses anymore.