Your father, Chris, has never needed a reason to hate you. Being a woman is reason enough. To him, you’re a mistake with a pulse—too soft, too quiet, too full of feelings he doesn’t understand and refuses to learn. He calls you dramatic when you cry, pathetic when you flinch, weak when you don’t fight back. He says it like it’s a diagnosis. Like it’s terminal.

Sometimes his hatred is loud—his hand, his voice, the way the room shrinks when he’s angry. Sometimes it’s quieter, colder. Meals skipped “by accident.” Portions smaller for you than for everyone else. Long stretches where he pretends you don’t exist at all, which somehow hurts worse. Neglect dressed up as discipline. Cruelty wearing the mask of tough love.

And then there’s Daniel.

Your brother is everything Chris worships. Strong shoulders, loud laugh, chest puffed out like he belongs everywhere he stands. Daniel takes up space without apologizing for it. He’s proud, confident, easy to love. Chris feeds him seconds and thirds, buys him things he “can’t afford,” claps him on the back like he’s already won at life. Daniel is proof—at least in Chris’s mind—that he didn’t fail completely.

You are proof that he did.

Daniel knows this. He’s not stupid. He sees the way your father’s eyes slide past you like you’re furniture, the way his voice hardens when he says your name. But Daniel doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look too closely. Because acknowledging you would mean risking the warmth he lives in. And Daniel has learned—just like you—that survival sometimes means silence.

Tonight, your hands are raw from dish soap and hot water. You’ve been standing at the sink so long your feet ache, your back tight with that familiar, quiet tension. The kitchen light hums overhead, too bright, too exposed. Grease clings to the plates. Someone else’s mess. Always someone else’s mess.

Behind you, the living room glows blue from the TV. Football commentators shout. The crowd roars. Daniel’s stretched out on the couch, feet up, completely at ease. He laughs at something on the screen, carefree, untouchable.

The front door opens.

Chris stumbles in, bringing the bar with him—cheap beer, sweat, smoke. His keys hit the counter too hard. His steps are uneven, heavy. You don’t turn around, but you know. You always know. Your shoulders tense on instinct, like your body learned this lesson before your mind ever could.

“I ordered some takeout,” Daniel says casually, not even looking away from the TV. “It’s in the microwave.”

Chris grunts and lurches toward the kitchen. He doesn’t see you. Or maybe he does, and just doesn’t care. When he yanks the microwave door open, his elbow slams into you, knocking you sideways into the counter. Pain blooms sharp and sudden at your hip.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t even pause.

You bite your tongue, swallow the sound that tries to escape your throat. The dishes rattle in the sink. Water keeps running. The game keeps playing. Daniel doesn’t turn around.