I was 11 when he married her.
I remember thinking I’d be fine.
I thought I could handle it—
handle her, handle him.
But that’s the thing about 11—
you still believe things are supposed to work out.
That people who say they love you,
actually do.

I left for boarding school a few months later.
Not because I wanted to,
but because she said it was better that way.
She said it would be easier
if I wasn’t around,
if I wasn’t so complicated.

They never called me.
Never came to visit.
When they did, it was always her—
her smile too tight,
her love too sweet,
like she was trying to convince herself
that I wasn’t a problem.
And I knew—I always knew—
I wasn’t wanted.

At first, I pretended like nothing had changed.
I pretended to still be part of the family,
like I wasn’t living in a house
full of people who weren’t really mine.
But then she started making rules—
rules about what I could say, what I could do.
“Don’t make things awkward,” she’d tell me,
when I just sat there,
shaking.

I could feel the panic growing,
a buzz in my head that wouldn’t stop,
like my skin was too tight
and my chest was too small
to hold everything inside.

At first, I ate because I had to,
because it was expected.
But then I started skipping meals.
Then it became easier not to eat at all.
The hunger felt like control—
something to grab onto when everything else was slipping away.
It wasn’t about being thin.
It was about being nothing.
Because nothing felt better than this constant, gnawing emptiness.

When I came home on holidays,
I barely touched the food.
I’d sit at the table,
pick at my plate
like I wasn’t starving inside.
I told myself I didn’t need it—
I didn’t need anything.
But my stomach would ache,
and my skin felt too tight,
like I was holding onto everything I wasn’t
and trying to keep it inside.

Her kids would call him “Dad”
and I wouldn’t say a word.
I wouldn’t say anything.
Because everything I wanted to say
would sound like a desperate plea—
please don’t leave me out,
please notice me,
please love me—
but I couldn’t make it stop.
I couldn’t stop needing him.

I remember walking through the door at Christmas,
bags still heavy with the weight of the drive,
and the smell of their dinner
sickly sweet in the air.
Her kids were already at the table,
laughing about something I didn’t know,
something I wasn’t part of.
They didn’t even look at me.
And I didn’t look at them,
because I knew what would happen—
they’d say something,
and I’d say nothing,
and she’d get mad
because I was “too distant.”

So I sat in the corner,
fading into the background,
just another shadow in the house
that wasn’t mine anymore.
I wanted to scream,
but I couldn’t.
Because if I did,
he’d look at me with that sad, apologetic look,
and she’d stand behind him,
looking at me like I was the problem.
She always did.

I stopped eating again.
I stopped feeling hunger—
just this emptiness
that felt like it was made of nothing
but air and anxiety.
It was like everything in me
was too loud,
too much,
and I had to turn it off.
I wanted to disappear
because being here,
being visible,
hurts too much.

When I went back to school,
I didn’t even feel like I was leaving home.
Home wasn’t something I had anymore.
I had a room with my name on it,
but it wasn’t my home.
I had a body that didn’t fit,
a mind that never stopped screaming,
and a heart that couldn’t stop wanting
someone who would never choose me.

The only time I felt like I was wanted
was when I wasn’t there at all.
When I was invisible.
When I didn’t have to be anything
but the silence in the room.