What I did find were notes. Psychiatric evaluations—my mother’s. Severe anxiety disorder. Religious delusions tied to numerology and “impure dates.” Recommendations for therapy she never followed.
There was also a letter from a social worker dated sixteen years earlier.
We have concerns about isolation and developmental harm. If contact is not restored, further action will be taken.
My parents had moved shortly after.
I wasn’t hidden because I was dangerous.
I was hidden because my mother believed the world would punish her for giving birth to me. And my father—coward that he was—went along with it.
That night, I didn’t go back to the basement.
I slept on the living room couch.
When my parents came home and saw me, my mother screamed.
Not in anger.
In terror.
“You don’t understand,” she cried. “If people see you, everything falls apart.”
She was right.
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