I didn’t get to be the daughter. I didn’t get to melt down or fall apart or slam the door and scream that life wasn’t fair. I learned early that someone had to keep things from falling apart, and that someone was me.

I was the one who knew how to read his face before he even said a word. The one who whispered to my siblings when to hide, when to stay still, when it was finally safe to come out.

I was the one who softened the blow, who tried to make her smile when all she could do was cry. The one who stood in the middle and made excuses for grown-up choices I didn’t understand, just so we could all make it to the next morning.

I wasn’t the child. I was the buffer. The fixer. The emotional first responder in a house where no one said sorry but everyone bled anyway.

And even now, I still flinch when someone raises their voice. I still over-apologize. I still don’t know how to ask for comfort without first calculating the cost.

Because I didn’t get to be the daughter. I got to be the one who survived.