I Wasn’t Safe From the Liar

Being the “ours” in his, hers, and ours
made me a late-arriving baby who grew up
feeling like an only child,
orbiting a story that never quite fit.

I was told the father I believed hung the moon
might harm me,
and the warning rewired my childhood
into vigilance—

blue jeans worn to bed
because they were hard to peel away,
long blonde hair crammed
under Uncle John’s work hat,
covers pulled to my chin
through humid Southern nights,
trying to blur into a boy
so a changing body wouldn’t be seen.

I built distance from the quiet strength
that had once steadied me,
traded porch-light talks and easy wisdom
for locked doors
and listening for footsteps.

Who do you believe
when the person suffering
believes the lies her illness creates?
She is convincing—
a nurturer, a protector,
the maternal bond that was supposed
to be your nest of safety.

You are too young, too trusting,
to recognize the alternative reality
she is living in,
because on the surface
everything looks normal.

Years of anguish, grief, and guilt
culminated in a breaking—
the same year the world shut down
under COVID-19.

The hole was dark.
My clothes were black.
I showed up to work in slippers
and someone said
I looked like the grim reaper,
when all along
the reaper was the one
holding my hand,
and the valley of the shadow of death
began to feel
like an invitation.

A year of medical intervention,
therapy,
answers from family
to questions that had no language,
memories triggered
by all five senses—
each one pulling me deeper
into the dark
while, in the same breath,
leading me toward light.

Healing.

Just in time
for more lies,
another whirlwind of stress
and life reshaped again.

But freedom is possible
as you begin to let go,
learning that the cost of peace
is becoming the villain
in someone else’s story.

And choosing peace anyway.