I grew up in foster care while my sister stayed with our father – years later, she took me to his house and said, “If you go in there…you’ll be in danger.”

I stared at him for so long my chest ached.
“Richard,” she said. “He’s in a wheelchair. It’s been years.”
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. “So he’s alive.”
Not a ghost. Not a monster.
Not a ghost. Not a monster. Alive.
After that, we started hanging out. Slowly. Awkwardly.
Coffee shops. Going to bookstores. Late-night texts where we tried too hard to sound normal.
Some moments felt natural. Like when we laughed at the same lame joke and then looked at each other like, “Oh. It’s genetic.”
Some moments were brutal. Like when she said “our home” and I remembered I never had one.
And there was a question that stayed between us like a third person.
Why was she allowed to stay… and I wasn’t?
Why was she allowed to stay… and I wasn’t?
Every time I moved closer, Barbara tensed up.
“We’ll talk about it,” she said. “I just… need to understand how.”
A year of that drove me crazy.
As if the truth was either too ugly to say, or too shameful to admit.

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