Growing up, I watched my mother leave a man she married too young. My father, in his grief, traded tears for beer and a marked ring finger for a string of women. I swore there and then I would never believe in happiness.

Growing up, I watched as my mother’s boyfriend hit my younger brother, careful to leave bruises only where cloth covered up skin. I watched as my mother watched: silently, and never raising a finger. But I was the better person, I think: I was waiting my turn. I swore there and then that I would never trust anyone, not even family.

Growing up, I watched my older siblings stumble through the pitfalls of teen life: they fall out of love as quickly as they fell in, and rebelled against anyone who dared presume authority over their lives. I watched as they sought the attention our parents could not give: from strangers, no less. I swore there and then that I would never need or want of anything from anyone.