I was three years old the first time someone took something from me that I didn't yet have words for. I didn't learn that until much later — when the memories surfaced and the timeline finally revealed itself. For years, I believed it started at eight. A family member. An uncle who disguised cruelty as care. Then an aunt, separately, who introduced me to alcohol at twelve and used me in ways that still resist easy naming. Cousins. The architecture of betrayal was built entire