The visits started when I was eighteen.
“Just checking on you,” he said the first time I pretended to wake up, blinking at him in the doorway. “Making sure you’re sleeping well.”
But he didn’t leave right away. He sat on the edge of my bed and watched me breathe. I kept my eyes closed, heart pounding, wondering what he was thinking. What he was planning. What he wanted from me that he couldn’t ask for in daylight.
The next night, he touched my hair.
The night after that, my shoulder.
By nineteen, he was touching places stepfathers don’t touch, and I kept pretending to sleep because stopping him would mean acknowledging what we were doing. Would mean having a conversation neither of us was ready for.
So I stayed still. Let him explore. Learned to control my breathing even when his fin
