Glitter, a Bobby Jack sweater, and a childhood that didn’t fit the sparkles.
There’s a certain kind of girl the world forgets to protect.
She isn’t loud. She isn’t broken in a way that draws attention.
She’s just… there. In the middle of things. Holding it all together.
This one was seven. Her sister was five. They were pass-the-phone-between-houses kids. Living on a custody clock — not the split-week kind, but the kind where weekends, summers, and holidays belonged to him.
Their bodies never settled; their backpacks always packed.
One house was burnout on a schedule. Predictable, but tired. Routine so strict it left no room for softness. Everyone was doing their best, just too worn down to remember to smile.
The other house — chaotic. Unpredictable.
A man who mistook intensity for love and emotion for control.
He cried a lot. Smoked just enough. Left the TV on at night, loud like a heartbeat trying to drown out his own thoughts. Sometimes she crept downstairs to turn it off. Other nights… he asked her to stay. To cuddle. Just for a second. Just to make him feel less alone.
She didn’t want to.
But she stayed.
Because it was easier than saying no.
Because if she was good — if she was calm, quiet, agreeable — maybe the rage wouldn’t come. Maybe her sister could sleep. Maybe he wouldn’t hate the drive back to their mom’s.
Spoiler: He did.
Every time.
He came back angrier, tighter. His body language sharper than his voice. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he slammed doors. But always, always — she was the one he looked at like she owed him something. Like her little shoulders were built to carry grown-up emotions.
She did her best.
Then came the summer of the trailer.
— The new girlfriend — brought fresh air into the house. A dog, too. A new kind of silence: peaceful, not tense. Her sister finally slept over. She smiled more. They played outside. It started to feel like maybe this would be the moment life got better.
They planned a camping trip. The first one in years.
She packed with intention:
Her sparkles. Her Bobby Jack hoodie. DC shoes she wore like a declaration.
This time would be different.
She wrote in her journal: This will be the best trip ever.
But the man — her father — was unraveling in the background.
Asking questions with panic under the surface: Did this fit? Did that close right? Would this wheel hold?
She wanted to ask something simple.
What if a tire fell off?
A kid question. A valid one.
But his face stiffened into a smile that wasn’t a smile.
“That won’t happen.”
The kind of answer that makes you wish you hadn’t asked.
Three hours in, it did.
The trailer tire blew. No tools. No plan. No backup.
Just a man pacing in the sun, muttering about towns and repairs and how none of this was his fault.
They drove in circles.
Things got lost.
So did she, a little.
Not physically. Spiritually.
Because when you’re a kid and your grown-up can’t hold it together,
you learn to swallow your own fear and call it strength.
You learn that sometimes men love loud — but not safe.
She watched him more carefully after that.
His tells. His shifts. The way he couldn’t handle uncertainty.
How his anxiety looked like anger.
And how his “I need you” meant You’re the adult now.
That day, she stopped writing in the journal.
The sparkles went dull.
But she never forgot.
The wheel will always fall — not because you’re cursed,
but because someone didn’t check if it could.
Hey, I’m Taylor. I love sharing real stories about community, growth, and everything in between.
