Chapter 1: Born Unwanted, Marked for Pain

When I was twenty-nine, my own father strangled me to death. His hands were rough, the smell of whiskey sharp in the air, and the world faded as I fought for breath. Even now, sometimes, I can still feel that pressure—like invisible fingers pressing in, stealing the air from my lungs.

That’s a hell of a way to start a story, isn’t it? Even now, it hits me—a punch to the gut. My father, Leonard Walker, hands around my neck. Sometimes I wake up gasping, clawing at the sheets, the memory fresh as ever. But this isn’t just about how it ended. It’s about everything that led me there.

My real dad’s name is Leonard Walker. Since I was a girl, he never liked me—not from the very start. Not once. Honestly, it was like I’d failed some test I never even got to take.

I remember the look on his face when I was born—like the universe had just played a sick joke on him. He never hid his disappointment, not even from the nurses bustling around. It was like I’d already let him down, before I’d even had a chance to cry.

When my grandpa heard I was born, he stormed out in anger and never came back. Never. Not once.

He slammed the door so hard the windows rattled in their frames. My mom used to say the silence that followed was worse than any argument they’d ever had. Grandpa never sent a card, never called for birthdays—just vanished, like I’d erased the Walker line by being a girl.

They all believed only boys could carry on the Walker family name, and having a girl was the worst kind of bad luck. It was like the family legacy was a weight I’d dropped, even though I never asked to hold it. I always wondered why it mattered so much—maybe for them, carrying the name was everything. For me, it just felt like a curse I never wanted.

It was like I was a walking omen, a black cat crossing their path every day. Family reunions? I was the afterthought, the shadow in the corner. Sometimes I wondered if they even saw me at all, or if I was just a ghost haunting their traditions.

Because my mother had a heart condition and couldn’t have another child, Leonard constantly tore into her, calling her useless, broken. He’d mutter loud enough for the whole house to hear, “Can’t even give me a real heir.” Sometimes he’d slam the fridge shut or toss his keys across the table, just to make a point. The tension in our house was like a storm cloud—thick, heavy, always ready to burst.

Luckily, my mother had a backbone of her own. She couldn’t stand those baseless accusations and often fought with Leonard about it. She wasn’t afraid to shout back, even when her voice trembled. I’d hear her late at night, telling him she was more than just a baby machine, that she deserved better. Sometimes I’d press my ear to the wall, holding my breath, hoping her strength would rub off on me. It made me believe strength could look like her, even when the world tried to say otherwise.

When I was five, Leonard lost his job and could only scrape by pushing a battered hot dog cart down Main Street. He’d come home reeking of onions and cheap mustard, his hands red from the cold. He’d toss his greasy apron onto the couch and complain about the city, the customers, the weather—never himself.

He blamed all his misfortune on me, standing out there in the wind and sun: "Ever since your mother gave birth to a money-sucking brat like you, my luck’s been garbage! Jinx!" Sometimes he’d shout it in front of the neighbors, not caring who heard. I’d stare at my sneakers, wishing I could disappear. Sometimes I could almost feel the word ‘jinx’ floating above my head, like a name tag I couldn’t take off. My cheeks would burn, and I’d wish the ground would just swallow me up.

And every time Mom heard that, she’d go off on him again. She’d storm into the room, voice sharp as a whip, defending me with every ounce of strength she had left. Even after the fights, she’d kneel down, brush my hair back, and whisper, “You’re not bad luck. You’re my miracle.” I’d cling to those words like a lifeline.

Back then, I was just a kid and honestly thought my parents’ arguments were all my fault. I’d lie awake, listening to their voices through the wall, thinking if I just tried harder, if I was just better, maybe things would be different. Guess kids always think the world spins around them, for better or worse.

I even used to think, if I just got straight A’s, maybe my parents would stop fighting. I’d stare at my homework until the numbers blurred, determined to fix my family with nothing but a pencil and a stack of worksheets. Sometimes I’d make deals with God, promising to be perfect if it meant a little peace.

So I studied hard, and every parent-teacher conference, the teachers would praise me. They’d tell my mom I was bright, hardworking, a joy to have in class. I’d watch her smile, her eyes shining with pride, and for a moment I’d feel like maybe I’d done something right.

But it was always my mother who attended. She’d sit in the tiny plastic chairs, knees pressed together, jotting notes in her purse-sized notebook. Leonard never showed. I used to tell myself he was just busy, but deep down, I knew better. He didn’t care.

When she came home and told Leonard about my good grades, he would just sneer and say his genes were good—too bad they didn’t get passed to a son. He’d laugh like it was a joke, but it stung every time. I’d stand in the hallway, clutching my report card, wishing I could disappear into the wallpaper.

And then the two of them would have another huge fight. Sometimes the shouting would go on until midnight. I’d pull my pillow over my head, but the words still found me. My mom always defended me, but it never seemed to matter.

Arguments were the background music of my life. A few years later, always chasing easy money, Leonard got addicted to gambling. He started coming home later and later, smelling like cheap beer and cigarette smoke. Sometimes he’d have a wad of cash, other times nothing but excuses. The air in the house felt like it could snap at any moment.

My mother tried to talk sense into him, but he strutted around like he was untouchable: "I’m the King of Poker! I even won big the other day!" He’d strut around, waving a handful of bills, bragging to the guys at the bar. But the next day, the money would be gone, and the bills would pile up on the kitchen table.

Maybe he was lucky for a while—he really did win a lot during that time. There were nights when he’d come home, pockets bulging, tossing a few crumpled dollars at me like it was some grand gesture. But I learned early that luck never stuck around long in our house.

Never gave a cent to Mom. Kept it all for himself—God knows what he was up to. She’d ask for grocery money, and he’d wave her off, telling her to budget better. Sometimes I’d catch her counting coins behind closed doors, trying to stretch a dollar into a week’s worth of meals.

Because of money, my parents had huge fights every few days, and small ones almost every day. The house was a minefield. I learned to tiptoe, to read the room before I spoke. Becoming invisible felt safer than drawing attention.

My father didn’t care. My mother had to work hard and endure a tough life just to raise me. She picked up shifts wherever she could—diner, grocery store, even cleaning houses. She’d come home bone-tired, but always managed a smile for me. I never understood how she kept going, but she did.

This went on until I finished elementary school, when disaster struck—my mother died of a heart attack that summer. The world went silent the day she died. Sirens, flashing lights, the neighbors’ voices hushed behind curtains. I remember the coldness of her pillow, the way the house echoed without her laughter. Everything changed.

After my mother passed, my life became hell. The house felt colder, emptier. Leonard barely looked at me. I learned to make my own breakfast, do my own laundry, keep out of his way. Every day blurred into the next—gray, lonely, endless.

Leonard remarried, bringing in my stepmother, Diane, who also had a boy. Diane showed up, tired smile, kid on her hip. She tried to make the best of things, but the house was already cracked at the foundation. Her boy—Christopher—was Leonard’s, too. Turns out, the cheating started long before my mother died.

That boy was Leonard’s own—he’d already cheated before my mother died! The betrayal stung in a way I can’t explain. It was like my mother’s absence had been planned, like I’d been replaced before I even knew I was losing her.

All the money Leonard won gambling went to his mistress and illegitimate son. I’d find receipts for toys and clothes I’d never seen, gifts for a family I wasn’t part of. Sometimes I’d sit on the floor, staring at those slips of paper, thinking, “What about me?”