When we first met, it was besties at first sight. We meshed instantly. She — a badass bitch from the wrong side of the tracks, infant daughter in tow. Me — generous, kind, with a soft spot for anyone who’d lived a hard life.
I felt her pain, her constant fight just to survive. I’ve always had a weakness for the underdog, and she was their poster child. What I didn’t admit to myself was that I was desperate. I needed a caregiver for Rowan — desperately. Our survival hinged on my job, and my job hinged on reliable childcare.
Alex needed a place to live. She needed a job. She needed stability. It was, I later learned, the perfect storm.
She required constant approval — compliments like oxygen. She’d “risen from the ashes,” surviving loss, addiction, and jail, and her happiness depended entirely on praise. Her mothering, her cleaning schedule, her appearance — everything needed acknowledgment. She spent two hours minimum on hair and makeup, refusing to be seen until she was perfect. Presentation wasn’t optional; it was survival.
My habit of keeping my thoughts and feelings to myself turned out to be a bonus. She had no patience for anyone else’s struggles. She’d been in the trenches, she’d known pain — but only her pain counted. Other people’s hardships were an inconvenience. Mine especially.
And like the dutiful woman I’d been conditioned to be, I accepted her indifference without protest and folded myself smaller.
She claimed to have mastered the system. What she’d actually mastered was manipulation. Everything bent in her favor. She always walked away smelling like roses, glowing with the satisfaction of “winning.” She was proud of herself and expected applause from anyone allowed to witness her journey.
She believed she was entitled to everything. Being adopted from a third‑world country was her go‑to justification for special treatment. She craved having people bend to her will the way she’d once craved drugs. That was her new high. Her “wins” weren’t victories — they were debts the world had finally paid.
She liked to test loyalty. Set people up for failure, then watch them scramble back for redemption. It was a game, and she played it well.
To her, I represented wealth, power, and success — things she wanted and would stop at nothing to obtain. In a twisted way, she wanted to be me. A good mother, while she’d lost five of her seven children to social services. Never addicted to drugs, while she survived day to day on methadone. A life that appeared clean, stable, structured.
She dismissed my past traumas as irrelevant and redirected the spotlight back to herself with surgical precision.
Gossip became her new drug of choice. She spoke about everyone as though they were beneath her. No one ever measured up. Other people’s ideas were unrealistic; only she was capable of making things work, of twisting life around her finger. The rest of us were just meant to watch in awe as Alex prepared her next performance.
She was never to be questioned. Her been‑there‑done‑that attitude didn’t allow for new information, differing perspectives, or — God forbid — accountability.
Her friendships were measured by usefulness.
Me? I was a complete source of income.
I handed over cash willingly, funding her “dynasty,” happy to help, happy to believe I mattered. When the money dried up, so did her need for me. How dare I stop providing in the manner she’d grown accustomed to.
And just like that, the curtain closed. No applause. No gratitude. Just the sound of the door locking behind me — and the sudden, blessed silence of being free.
Silence never felt so good,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 