Once the doubt took root, everything changed.
I started paying attention to details I’d ignored before. The way my parents avoided specifics. The way my medical history was “lost.” The way my mother flinched whenever I asked about hospitals. Schools. Other children.I wasn’t cursed.
I was hidden.
I began keeping a journal, writing in the margins of old math books. Dates. Conversations. Patterns. My father always worked late on leap years. My mother drank more wine afterward. They argued in whispers I could hear through the vents.
One night, I heard my name spoken in anger.
“She’s getting older,” my father said. “This was never supposed to last this long.”
“You promised,” my mother replied. “You said this would protect her.”
“From what?” he snapped. “From people? Or from what they’d think of us?”
That was the first time I heard fear in his voice.
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