The year after that… everything broke apart and rearranged itself at once.
My parents divorced when I was twelve.
My mother took me with her. Packed what little we owned into two suitcases and left before dawn like we were running from a crime scene. My father didn't chase after us. He didn't call. He didn't ask where I was. Weeks turned into months, and eventually even my nightmares of him stopped.
It was like we had vanished from his life completely.
And somehow… that hurt more than the violence.
By thirteen, my attitude had changed.
I wasn't quiet anymore.
I wasn't scared anymore.
I was angry.
I leaned into it the only way a broken kid knew how — with rebellion that looked ugly but felt powerful. I cut my hair shorter. Got my ears pierced with a needle behind the convenience store with shaking hands and a stupid, defiant grin.
When I came home bleeding a little from the lobes, my mother barely looked up.
