I was born on February 29th, so my parents said I was cursed and told the world I died. In reality, I’ve been locked in a soundproof basement for 16 years. Every four years, they let me exist for one day.

On my seventeenth birthday—March 1st—I celebrated for the first time.

A cupcake. A candle. A simple wish.

To never disappear again.

My parents eventually pled guilty. My mother was committed to a psychiatric facility. My father received prison time. I visited neither.

I don’t hate them.

But I don’t forgive them either.

I exist every day now.

Not because someone allows it.

But because I always did.

They just tried to bury that truth underground.

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