When I was little, I took great pride in my family. My parents would take me to the park and I would wiggle my eyebrows mockingly at other kids as I walked with my loving mom and dad and their parents fought over stupid things, like forgetting the juice boxes or bringing the wrong blanket to sit on.

My parents and I were the perfect family. Every night we had fantastic dinners that my parents cooked together, then we would play music and dance around as we cleaned up. My parents loved being involved in my school and extracurricular activities. They drove me and my team to soccer practice every Saturday and cheered the loudest when I scored. My birthday parties were legendary, because my parents always went all out to throw me really cool themed parties. I thought my life was absolutely perfect in every single way. Little did I know, there were things brewing under the surface that I couldn’t see.

When I was 15, I woke up in the middle of the night to a door slamming shut, then I heard it creak open again and I heard crying. I froze; I had never heard anything like it. I ran out of my room and saw that my dad was crying at the bathroom door, whispering something desperately. My mom then came out of the bathroom, no expression on her face until her eyes landed on me. She got teary eyed, then she grabbed two suitcases and set them by the door. She swung our front door open, then turned to me, wiped my tears of confusion and fear and kissed my forehead. She then grabbed her suitcases and threw them in the trunk of a car that was waiting for her by the street.

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