Chap. 6 — Learning to Disappear
When Fear Sat Down at the Table
There were five of us in our family: Mom, Dad, my two brothers, and me. We sat at the kitchen table for our main meal around noon — four of us together, while my baby brother, still an infant, was fed separately. I don't remember whether he was in the kitchen with us or upstairs in the living room and dining area.
I remember the light slanting across the linoleum floor, the silence suddenly louder, the air unbearably heavy — the first day after my innocence slipped away.
Somewhere deep inside me, a little girl crouched low, wrapping her arms around herself. She hadn’t gone far; she was still nearby, but she was hidden now. Watching. Waiting.
At the table, I noticed something for the first time: a thick, heavy gloom hanging over each of us. I must have been so alive in my own inner world, that I hadn’t seen it before — hadn’t realized how sorrow had long been sitting with us, an unseen guest at every meal.
Now, I saw it everywhere. My mother, with tight lips and sharp eyes. My father, silent and withdrawn. My older brother, fidgeting with his fork.
Fear sat down at the table that day, pulling up a chair beside me, resting its cold hand on my back. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I didn’t know the rules anymore. So I started studying everyone. When to smile. When to be quiet. When to laugh, even if I didn’t feel like laughing. How to lift my fork just so. I became a mirror, reflecting what I hoped was safe enough to survive.
Some memories come in sharp flashes: The gagging taste of canned peas forced down my throat. The sharp sting of mustard, ketchup, and hot sauce — each smeared onto a knife by my father’s hand, each pushed toward my mouth. Each new flavor was like a test: What would I swallow to keep peace? What would I endure to belong?
🌸 My little girl inside — the one who had swung high on her swing, toes pointed to the sky — she tucked herself away even deeper.
Another day, I was outside again, back on the swing, trying to remember what it felt like to be free. I pumped my legs once, twice. Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain ripped through my belly. I doubled over and, unable to stand upright, began to waddle toward the house. Fear filled my face as I cried out, “Mommy, Mommy, help me! Help me!”
I don’t remember much after that, only the feel of arms lifting me, the sight of our next door neighbor, Mr. Wagner’s worried face as he carried me up the steps to the living room. My mother followed closely behind.
The doctor came — in those days, they still made house calls. He pressed on my tender belly and said something about glands. I didn’t understand. But by the time he arrived, the stabbing pain had faded into a dull ache. The grown-ups decided it was over. No more questions. No more fuss.
But it wasn’t over, not really.
Now I wonder… Was that the moment my body began speaking what my heart couldn't yet say?
Was the little girl at the screen door not just crying for help — but pleading for someone to find her, to call her innocence back home?
I didn’t know how to ask.
I didn’t know how to explain.
All I knew was that fear had taken a seat at our table, and my body had begun to carry what my voice could not.
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