It rewires your mind, twists your instincts, and leaves you second-guessing whether anything you feel is even real.
I am Jainey Renee. And this isn’t just my story—it’s a reckoning.
A confession.
A warning.
These are the truths I wasn’t supposed to tell, the ones she would’ve rather I buried.
But fuck it. I’m done burying everything.
This ismystory—mylife. So, turn the page if you want—but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Love isn’t simple. It’s messy, cruel, addictive.
And once you’re in it, you learn very quickly how dangerous it can be.
Chapter One
Starvingfor love
T
he walls in my room are painted the color of the sky—light blue with fake little clouds brushed across the ceiling like someone thought they could trick me into feeling free. The room’s barely big enough for one twin bed, let alone two—but somehow I share it with my older brother.
Our two-bedroom house never gave us the space we needed, but at least it’s a house. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
Once, I asked my mom why we couldn’t get something bigger. So that my brother can at least have his own bed instead of a futon in the living room, or worse, my floor.
“I don’t have money like that, Jainey. Maybe if your dad wasn’t such a deadbeat and actuallyhelpedmewith the kids hehelpedcreate, we could have more than this two-bedroom box with one tiny ass bathroom,” she snapped.
The older I get, her resentment towards us gets even worst. She hates my father for leaving her stuck to be a single mom with two kids.
And little does she know, the feeling is mutual.
Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I had gone with him instead of her. But then I remember the way she talks about him—and how he doesn't have shit going for himself.
And honestly, she probably isn’t lying. I’ve only seen him a handful of times anyway—when she didn’t feel like dealing with us. Every time felt rushed, and half-hearted, like he wanted to disappear before he could even earn the titleDad.
After I turned eight, she made sure we never saw him or his side of the family ever again. She hates them almost as much as she hates him.
The thing about carrying that much hate in your heart is that it leaks out, spilling onto everything, and everyone. You forget how to love because you’re too busy choking on bitterness focused on negativity.
That’s how my mom lives—spitting venom, covering up her wounds with anger, and pretending it makes her stronger. But the truth is—she’s broken. And no matter how much I want her to love me, she can’t. She aims all that poison and hatred at me—her youngest kid, her only daughter.
The few times my mom brought us around her side of the family, everybody swore up and down I was her little twin.“She looks just like you!”they’d say, all smiles like it was supposed to be some kind of compliment. Yeah, her “spitting image.” I can’t imagine how someone can treat their mirror image like shit, but hey—maybe that’s the point.
What makes the cut even deeper is that she wasn’t always like that. There were moments—rare ones—where I caught glimpses of themomI wished I had all the time. Like when I’d slip into her clothes and strut around trying to imitate her, or when we’d sit in the car and joke about random people on the street.
For a second, it almost felt like love. Like maybe she saw me for me.
But even in those moments, I still felt the empty space where hugs and affection should’ve been.
Sometimes she’ll take me shopping before the school year starts, buying clothesshewants me to wear. Most kids would’ve been thrilled. But I knew it was just another way for her to control me.
But whatever—I don’t complain. I’m just happy to be anywhere but inside that suffocating house. Trips? Vacations? Family outings? Please. She works too much for that, let her tell it.
Either way, holidays are nothing but the three of us, stuck in the same four walls, pretending that everything is normal.
So yeah, the mall or even a grocery store feels like an event in my childhood.
