The hardest part wasn't the kids. It wasn't even my stepdad's voice telling them how much he loved them. It was me. It was the way I couldn't breathe when I thought about being around older men. It was the way my body remembered things I never told anyone.
The sexual assault lived inside me like a ghost. It haunted me in silence. I never spoke of it. I never told my mom. How could I? She wouldn't believe me. Or if she did, she would blame me. That was how it always felt with her. I carried it alone, and because of that, every time she told me to "get closer to your stepdad, he's taking care of you," I felt sick. My skin crawled. My chest tightened. She didn't know. She couldn't know. And yet her words cut me open every time.
"Stop being stubborn," she would say. "Why can't you just be free with him? He is helping you. Don't be stupid."
But she didn't understand. I wasn't being stubborn. I wasn't being stupid. I was trying to survive. My silence wasn't rebellion, it was fear. My distance wasn't disrespect, it was protection. But she couldn't see it. She wouldn't see it.
So I carried it.
And then there were the kids. They blended into her life so perfectly. She called them "my babies" with a softness that made my heart ache. She combed their hair, cooked their favorite foods, asked about their dreams. And me? I was the mistake. The reminder of a past she hated.
One night, she said it out loud again. She was angry with me about something small — the way I stayed in my room, the way I didn't laugh with them. She snapped, her words sharp as knives:
"You're such a mistake sometimes."
I froze. My heart stopped.
Then, after a pause, she added, "A mistake that turned out to be a blessing."
But it didn't matter. The word "mistake" stayed. It echoed. It clung to me. I carried it on my skin like a brand.
I lay in bed that night and whispered to myself, "I am a mistake." Over and over. My body shaking. My chest burning. Tears rolling down my cheeks.
I hated myself. I hated that I wasn't enough. I hated that no matter what I did, I couldn't make her see me the way she saw them.
The betrayal sat heavy in my chest. Not just because of her words, but because I needed her. I needed her to see me. I needed her to fight for me. I needed her to care that I was drowning inside. But she didn't. She only pushed me harder toward the people who scared me, toward the family that wasn't mine.
And I broke. Quietly. Silently. Alone.
I stopped trying to be part of them. I stopped waiting for her to notice me. I started living like a ghost in my own house. Moving quietly, hiding my face, speaking less. My silence became my shield. My numbness became my only way to survive.
Everywhere I looked, I felt like an outsider. Every word she said about how I should "be grateful" made me feel smaller. Every laugh she shared with them made me feel erased.
And my trauma stayed locked inside me, heavy, choking, suffocating... Squeezing my heart tighter every day..
Nobody knew. Nobody asked. Nobody cared how I felt...
So I carried my pain alone.. I didn't bother telling anyone. She'd never know how much I was hurting because she didn't deserve to know... No one did