DISARMING DAKOTA

The minivan pulled up to the curb, the engine idling roughly. Outside, the airport entrance loomed, a gateway to a new, unwanted life.

"Silvia, at least smile a little more," Mom said, the words hollow. White smoke curled from her cigarette, a barrier between us. She didn't step out, just watched as I pulled my meager belongings from the back.

I didn't look back as I entered the building, the automatic doors sliding shut behind me. Alone, just like always.

Hours later, stepping off the plane in California felt surreal. The air was different, the light harsher. My father was waiting, a stranger with a familiar face. The ride to his house was tense, filled with awkward questions and the smooth jazz from his expensive car feeling like a mockery of my life.

His house was massive, a symbol of the life he'd built without me. Pictures of his new family lined the walls – a constant reminder of what I wasn't a part of. Then came the introductions. His wife, Evelyn, trying too hard to be kind. And his sons, my new step-brothers, Hunter and Maven. Maven's reaction was instant and brutal, his words cutting deep.

The door to my temporary bedroom closed behind my father, leaving me in a piss-yellow room, holding the broken pieces of a picture frame. The fight had already started, and I hadn't even unpacked.