When I was 12 years old, my world shattered in a way no child should ever experience. I can still see that evening as if it were happening in front of me right now, the heavy silence in the living room, my mother’s trembling hands as she tried to hold onto her dignity, and my father standing tall beside a woman neither of us had ever seen before. She had a smug smile plastered on her face, as though she had already won something precious.
My father cleared his throat and delivered the words that would alter the trajectory of our lives forever: “You need to pack your things and leave. This is her home now.”
I didn’t understand at first. I thought maybe I had misheard. My mom tried to reason with him, her voice breaking, but he was resolute. His arm remained firmly around the stranger’s waist, and his eyes were cold, emptied of the warmth I once believed was love. Within an hour, my mother and I were on the sidewalk with a few bags, watching the only home I’d ever known fade into the night behind us.