She was ten and a half.

She was preparing her multiplication sets for tomorrow to compete against her best friend after school while waiting for the bus.

She was distracted, however.

She heard a shout. She heard a scream. She heard her mother.

She heard the house go quiet. She thought that her brother had done something, so she ran out to scold him.

She stepped out of her room to find her mother screaming at her grandparents.

She saw her grandparents with their finger pointing at her mother. She saw a clenched fist.

She saw her five year old brother sitting on the maroon carpet with his eyes wide open watching with fright. She saw that he was wearing his dark blue overalls — those were her favorite.

She glanced at her mother, but her mother was still screaming and shouting and tears were streaming down her mother’s face and glass had shattered on the kitchen floor.

She saw her father standing quietly on the side watching this untangle.

She was red — her face was. She was terrified. She was scared. She ran across two rooms, swept her brother into her arms and sprinted towards the door while he looked at what was happening from over her shoulder.

She stopped at the door. She knew it was cold outside and she couldn’t run anywhere else. She looked up to the ceiling, while her brother grabbed tightly to her leg scared and confused.

She looked up and prayed. She prayed for this to go away. She prayed.


She didn’t know who she was — maybe that was the case.

She was always judged.

She was never understood.

She wished others had walked in her shoes.