“She’s well behaved.”
“Uhm,” I mutter, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
“Good,” the second man says. “That’s very good.”
Father nods once, satisfied, and gestures toward the door without looking at me. I take the hint and step back. None of the men acknowledge me anymore. Their attention shifts to him, to each other, to their drinks and their quiet voices.
I walk out, heading to my own room.
Finally, I can breathe again.
It’s strange to feel trapped in your own house—in the place that’s supposed to be safe. Around the people who are supposed to care about you and keep you safe. Strange how I’ve never felt this way.
The hallway outside is warm, but I still feel cold. I keep my pace steady. I don’t want anyone calling me back. I keep my hands folded in front of me until I turn the corner, then I drop them to my sides.
My room is at the end of the hall. The door is slightly open, and the light inside is off. I step in and close it behind me, then lock it. I stand there for a moment, listening to my own breathing.
The smell of cleaning products is sharp tonight. It pulls something loose in my chest. I sit on the edge of my bed and press my hands together between my knees.
I remember being just a kid—around ten or eleven—sitting at the kitchen table long after dark, back in Italy. The smell of antiseptic and medication was thick in the air, like in a hospital. I don’t remember why.
The overhead light was the only one on. My father stood at the counter talking to two men I didn’t know. They were older than him. One of them kept looking at me while they talked.
My father told me to stay in my chair and be quiet. He told me I was good when I listened. He put his hand on the back ofmy shoulder when he said it. He didn’t hurt me. Actually, it was one of the most precious gestures he ever made to me.
One of the men asked if I always listened this well. My father said yes. He said I learned early.
They talked about me while I sat there. Height. Health. Temper. They talked as if I wasn’t part of the room. I remember staring at a crack in the table and counting my breaths because I knew I was not allowed to talk. I wanted to cry, but until now, I didn’t know why.
Their presence felt imposing and scary.
At some point, my father had told me to stand up and turn around. I did it. I remember the chair legs scraping the floor. The sound of one of the men laughing under his breath.
I remember my father telling me I did good after they left. He let me have dessert that night. He told me I’d made him proud.
That pulled a smile out of me before I could stop it. It was the first time he’d looked directly at me for longer than a few seconds. It was the first time he’d spoken to me without sounding irritated or distracted. I remember sitting very straight while I ate, because I wanted him to keep watching me. I wanted him to keep talking to me.
I never saw those men again after that night.
Nobody mentioned them.
Nobody mentioned anything.
Three years later, we left Italy and moved to Los Angeles. I was told to pack what I needed and leave the rest. The house was emptied fast. Staff disappeared without a goodbye, except for some trusted who were forced to follow.
My father stayed tense the entire day we left. He kept checking his watch and looking out of windows. He snapped at everyone. When the car arrived, he pushed me inside before the driver even stepped out, cursing me as if it was my fault.
My mother paid attention to none of it. She walked through the house in open robes or underwear with a drink in her hand, barely able to stand straight. She didn’t care who saw her. Staff kept their eyes down and moved around her. She laughed at nothing and spilled alcohol on the floors. Sometimes she forgot I was standing in the room. As always…
Nobody explained why we left. Nobody talked about Italy again.
This place felt tight from the first day. The same type of people moved through it. The same silence filled the rooms. Nobody raised their voice. Nobody laughed unless my father did first. Nothing changed. Only the address.
When we arrived here, I was old enough to notice more and young enough to still hope for something different. As my body changed and my emotions got sharper, I spent more time inside my head.
I’d built faces and voices for people who would notice me, choose me, and take me somewhere else. I held onto that for years, even when I stopped believing it would happen.
My father had made sure nobody ever got close enough to try. His men watched me at school, outside stores, at events. They watched who I spoke to and how long I spoke with them. They stepped closer when boys tried to approach me. They learned names and made people nervous. After a while, nobody tried anymore.
