The wind rattled the maple branches along Cedar Street, carrying the crisp scent of fallen leaves and dinner. I was seven—small, quiet, happiest lining up my Hot Wheels by color on my bedroom floor. Downstairs, Richard’s voice cut through the house like glass. The man everyone called “Mr. Cooper”—the polished middle school history teacher—had no filter when it was just us.
That evening, I saw my sister Lily, twelve, shuffle past my door in her oversized gray sweater. She used to laugh, read aloud, build tracks with me—but Richard had dimmed that light.
“Lily!” he bellowed. “Get down here and set the table!”
She froze, shoulders curling. I watched through the banister as she obeyed, hands shaking. When she dropped a fork, Richard snapped. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” His words weren’t discipline—they were fear incarnate.
Every night, I heard her muffled crying. I held my stuffed dinosaur tight. “Please keep her safe,” I whispered.
The storm didn’t pass. It got worse.
The next morning, Lily checked herself in the mirror. Her T-shirt had been missing for months, unnoticed by Mom, seen and exploited by Richard. On the drive to school, he squeezed her knee until she flinched. Every word, every touch a warning.
When I asked if she’d come to my art show, he shut her down. She whispered a broken promise.
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