If you had told me at eighteen that my family was not just “different,” but that we’d crossed lines I didn’t even know existed, I’d have laughed it off or called you sick. But you don’t know what you don’t know. Most families have secrets—ours just happened to be more radioactive than most.
For most of my childhood, I was oblivious. My world was a cozy, insulated bubble: two loving parents, a big house, financial comfort, and not much in the way of extended family. No aunts or cousins at Thanksgiving, no big holiday gatherings—just us, and maybe a sitter on date nights. It was weird, but not “call the authorities” weird. I thought I was just lucky, in a way. No messy family drama. No one to fight over inheritance. No one to worry about at Christmas.
