My childhood was fragile, like something that could break at any moment.
I grew up in a home where even something as simple as birthday balloons felt like a luxury—kept just long enough before they deflated and disappeared, just like everything else in my life.
My parents were never really there. They drifted in and out like shadows, leaving chaos behind them. My mother was in and out of jail before I even understood what that meant. My father was a ghost, lost in addiction and instability.
Nothing stayed. Not food, not laughter, not people.
Until Martha and Henry stepped in.
My grandparents.
They took me in when I was barely more than a toddler.
Their home was small, worn down, and forgotten by time—a creaky house with faded walls and floors that groaned with every step.
