For eight years, my parents made me leave whenever my brother’s fiancée visited. “She’s from a good family. Don’t embarrass us,” Mom said. So one weekend, I disappeared for good. Four years later, they finally discovered where I’d gone.

For eight years, I lived like an unwanted shadow inside my own family’s home. Whenever my older brother Julian’s wealthy future in-laws came to visit, my mother made sure I disappeared.
No discussion.

No compromise.

I packed a faded duffel bag, left through the side door, and spent the weekend somewhere else.

A cheap motel.

A twenty-four-hour diner.

Sometimes my car.

Anywhere but home.

According to my mother, Eleanor Dunaway, my presence was dangerous to the family image.

When I was eighteen, I had spent two weeks receiving psychiatric treatment for severe depression.