Growing up in my parents’ house taught me skills none of my friends needed. My parents were strict — aggressively strict. Every day after school I’d change out of my uniform and get straight to work: dishes, laundry, dusting, vacuuming. Then I had to keep my younger sisters quiet so my mother could watch her TV shows without being “bothered.” By the time dinner was over, I was exhausted, but the kitchen still had to be spotless before I was allowed to touch my homework. Bedtime came fast, and not because I was a child — because I was a worker.
Complaining wasn’t an option. A slap to the face was the standard reminder to “be grateful” for the roof over my head. Inside, I disagreed with every word, but I complied to avoid more punishment.
At school, I was painfully shy. I called classmates my friends, but I didn’t actually know what friendship meant. I wasn’t allowed to have any. My father said friends were a waste of time. No phone calls. No hanging out. No one allowed at our house. Friendship was forbidden.
So I listened to other kids talk about sleepovers, mall trips, and after‑school adventures. I’d quietly insert myself into their stories in my imagination — pretending I was there, pretending I had a childhood. Sometimes I’d even get invited, but I always had to decline. I was too embarrassed to admit the truth: I wasn’t allowed to have a life.
When I turned sixteen, I begged for a little freedom. I was old enough, but the answer was still no. So I found a loophole: babysitting. It got me out of the house and came with cash — cash I wasn’t allowed to spend. So I lied. I invented babysitting jobs and had my friends pick me up down the street. I’d go out, pretending to be normal, pretending I belonged in the world.
I had no idea what alcohol would do to me, but I drank anyway — reckless, clueless, desperate to feel like everyone else. Somehow, I never got caught. To this day, I don’t know how I escaped the punishment that would’ve followed.
That was the first time I realized “normal” didn’t apply to me. Everyone else was living. I was surviving.
Still standing, still unlearning the rules that were never meant for me,
K.
