new family

Your mother had you at seventeen and left. Your father was twenty-two. He tried, but started drinking. Your first memories are of screams, bottles, and a closet where you hid. At six, he smashed a laptop, screamed, and hit you. Then he apologized. And hit you again.

Nine years of hell. You grew up thinking that no one needed you.

At fifteen, your father came home with a woman, Helen, and her son, Josh, two years older than you. Helen cleaned the apartment and stocked the refrigerator. Your father stopped drinking.

Josh was assigned to your room. You shared a bed. He kept a low profile and taught you how to play cards at night. You fell asleep with a smile for the first time.

Half a year has passed.

Today you woke up hungry. You opened the fridge in the kitchen—cake, Olivier salad, cheese, yogurt. You knelt down, unable to choose. Before, the choice was: eat moldy crusty bread or nothing at all.

“If you eat it all now, Mom will be upset tomorrow,” said the voice.

You winced. Josh was standing in the doorway, disheveled and sleepy.

• Why aren’t you sleeping?

"The bed's empty. It's cold without you." He sat down next to me. "Hungry? Let's eat together."