Silence.
That’s how the house was when everyone else was asleep; except for me. While everyone slept, I stayed awake, thinking to myself, Should I have spoken up?
A quick answer formed in my head: No. Don’t ever speak up. You’ll make it worse.
If I spoke up, things always got worse.
I cried myself to sleep every night, wondering if I would ever be enough—enough for my parents to stop fighting and get it together. Mommy and Daddy shouldn’t have been fighting every night, especially about Daddy’s “friends.” I was young, and I thought this was normal.
My dad worked long hours every day—sometimes 12 hours, sometimes 16. When he got home, he never greeted us when he walked through the door. He went straight to the fridge. A beer. I thought this was normal.
(I now know this definitely wasn’t.)
A wave of sadness would hit me.
Why does my dad hate me?
Why does he choose a beer instead of spending time with me?
Why does he scream at us?
Why is he always angry?
I had so many questions, but I chose to stay silent.
Every night, the house was filled with a negative aura. I never knew how to fix things. I tried so hard to play both sides—Mommy’s side and Daddy’s side. I was always pulled into their arguments.
My mom would say things like,
“Tell her.”
“She’s old enough to know now.”
“If you don’t tell her, I will.”
What was she talking about? Maybe she meant my dad’s “friends”—or what I thought were friends. Maybe more than friends.
Yes, there were multiple “friends.”
I found out about one of my dad’s friends from one of my classmates—not from my own mother.
I was just starting junior high when I met this girl in my history class. I already hated that class because I had no friends. I sat next to her, and we became acquaintances. She would tell me she wouldn’t be at school the next day because she was going to the city with her mom and her mom’s friend.
Okay, cool.
My dad was also going to the city—for a “doctor’s appointment.” This happened at least once a month. I started to catch on. My friend was never at school when my dad went to the city.
What a coincidence.
Then one day, my friend started telling me about my dad.
Apparently, she knew he was my dad the entire time.
I was in disbelief.
She told me he bought her a new pair of shoes—thigh-high black Converse. I took note, but I didn’t fully believe her because she tended to lie a lot.
That night, when my dad got home, I decided to ask him for new shoes. I showed him a pair I really wanted—black and white Vans. They were expensive, but not outrageous.
My dad said no.
Instead, he showed me a picture on his phone of the shoes he would get me.
They were the thigh-high black Converse.
I didn’t know what to think.
Well, I did—ew. They were ugly and completely out of style. He knew I would never wear those. So why was he showing them to me?
Was he trying to tell me something without actually telling me?
I was confused. I was upset.
Not only had my dad bought my “friend” expensive shoes, but he broke my heart. I felt it shatter into a million pieces. Still, I knew I had to keep it together—and keep it a secret. I knew if I said anything, my parents would fight even more than they already were.
I stayed up all night thinking—thinking thoughts no child should ever have to carry. I didn’t understand why my dad would put me through this. How could he? I thought I was his little girl.
Now I was sharing my dad with a classmate—and I couldn’t say a word.
The next day at school, everything was a blur—except for history class. When that class came, I sat in my seat in silence. I didn’t speak, not even when my friend asked if I was okay.
How do I answer that?
Do I say, “Yeah, I’m totally fine. It’s just the fact that we basically share my dad, and he genuinely likes you more, and now I’m being replaced, and one day he’ll abandon me—that just doesn’t sit right with me.”?
Of course I couldn’t say that.
I didn’t want to make things worse at home.
When I got home from school that day, I went straight to my room. I didn’t speak to anyone.
I didn’t want to.
I didn’t know it then, but that silence wasn’t peace—it was survival. I normalized pain because it was all I knew. Discovering the truth didn’t just break my trust; it stripped me of innocence I never got back. I was a child trying to make sense of adult choices, loving a parent while quietly learning that love could hurt just as deeply as it could comfort.