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The teacher wanted to meet with Daddy today. It didn’t go well.

He got loud and Ms. Lovett looked at me with fear in her eyes.

I wanted to tell her he wouldn’t do anything. He never hit me in public so I knew he wouldn’t do that to a stranger.

But his voice boomed so loud the principal came to check on us.

“I got up out of that school,” my father grumbles. “These new teachers too damn involved. Told me to have this girl screened for autism because she keeps acting out. Ain’t nothing wrong with her, but I’m about tired of interrupting my day to go get her.” He pulls a bottle out of the fridge, tipping it towards his lips before he says. “We’ll see how many problems she has sitting at home all day. I got something to fix all that noise.”

Weston laughs and I hug myself tight while they talk about me.

I don’t want to stay home with him. The kids at school don’t like me but it’s still better than being home. Because the teacher is nice. And I get chocolate milk with my lunch every day.

I don’t want to stay with him. Sometimes he forgets to make me breakfast.

I go from hugging myself to pushing my hands against my ears. I don’t want to hear them laugh at me.

It’s too much. Why is everything I do too much?

I never went backto school after that day. I was six years old, and kindergarten is the extent of my formal education.

I didn’t go to school, but for years I sat in his office every day and read the encyclopedia as he worked. Even when the words looked like another language. I read them over and over. Front to back. Until my neck burned from the strain of bending and my lips were chap from how many times I had to lick my finger to turn the page.

I was silent. Because my dad wanted to see me. Never hear me.

I learned to hide in plain sight. Be invisible.

I was good at it for a long time.

But the older I got, the more I looked like the woman who left him—left us—and that sent him into a rage more times than I can count. More times than Iwantto count.

Because if I add it all up, I’ll have to confront the fact that more of my days were spent fighting instead of living.

Fighting for my voice.

Fighting for my autonomy.

I’m so sick of men telling me what to do.

My father made sure I would always be dependent on him.

No doctors’ appointments.

No school.

No ID.

No records of anything.

Nothing outside the crushing confines of his cruelty.

And I finally got away from it.

I was free.

For a whole year.

Until my father’s shadow decided he wanted his turn at fucking up my life.