Those three words nearly undid me.
I had spent most of my life being told to hurry, stay out of the way, and avoid becoming a problem someone else had to solve.
I was six years old when my parents died.
Afterward, I remembered sitting in a county office while adults spoke about me as though I were a damaged piece of furniture that needed to be stored somewhere.
There had been phone calls, paperwork, lowered voices, and long pauses whenever someone was asked whether they could take me.
Pamela eventually agreed.
She told everyone that family was family and that she could never abandon her sister’s child.
People praised her for it.
At home, she kept a different record.
Every meal was something I owed her for.
Every school outfit became proof of her generosity.
Every field trip fee, birthday cake, doctor’s appointment, and extra load of laundry was added to an invisible account I could never repay.
When I was old enough to work, part of every paycheck went toward household expenses even though Pamela’s own daughter was never asked to contribute.
When I earned scholarships, Pamela told people she had sacrificed everything to make my education possible.
When I received awards, Gemma was encouraged to pose beside me in photographs because Pamela said success should be shared with the whole family.
But failure belonged only to me.
