There were so many signs, and looking back now they feel like a series of slaps I somehow kept walking into. Tiny things at first — the kind you brush off because you want to believe people are reasonable.
When she first moved in, it was the floors. Her daughter wasn’t even walking yet, and because I had a dog, she insisted I steam‑clean every time they visited. Then every day once they moved in. I didn’t mind — I like a clean house — but it was the first little shift in who was actually running the place.
Then came the room size. Then the fence. Then the list of demands she fired at the landlord until he finally called me and said she had to go. I could stay, but he was done with her. And honestly, I understood. She was pushy, and I did absolutely nothing to rein her in.
A few months later we found a new place — two floors, six bedrooms, the kind of house I thought Rowan and I could finally breathe in. And for a while, we did. But she didn’t like my taste in furniture, so she decorated everything herself. I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself it was easier. I told myself a lot of things.
She filled the house with her choices, and I filled the silence by giving up mine. I stopped painting, drawing, quilting, even playing on my computer. She dictated our days, and I went along with it because pushing back meant anger — and she wasn’t pretty when she was angry.
We spent our time shopping, running around, getting our nails done twice a month and our hair every six weeks. She taught me the “fine art” of boosting. I told myself it wasn’t really stealing if the store was big enough and the purse was cute enough. I built a wardrobe that could’ve had its own zip code. Guilt? Sure. But I buried it under designer labels and adrenaline.
Then she turned her attention to Rowan.
Daily showers. Bleaching the floors. Air purifiers. Keeping him away from her daughter. Feeding him downstairs like he was something to be hidden. I didn’t see it then, but she was treating him like an animal. And I let it happen because I was trying to keep the peace in a house that was no longer peaceful.
I kept her away from him as much as I could. I didn’t trust her with him. But the demands kept coming, and the guilt kept piling up.
Then Logan joined in. Accusing me of being lazy, useless, not taking care of Rowan properly. One day he was six inches from my face, screaming, and I finally snapped. I yelled back so hard my false teeth flew out. Mortifying, yes. But it shut him up. Small victories.
By the end, the house was nothing but accusations and noise. Rowan heard more than he ever should have. For that, I carry guilt. I didn’t protect him from everything — but I got him out. And sometimes survival is the only victory you get.
Turns out I wasn’t the problem after all,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 