I grew up with a confusing family dynamic. I lived with my mom, while my dad lived just two floors above us—with Rachel, my godmother. That arrangement always felt odd, but anytime I asked about it, my mom would say, “You’ll understand when you’re older.” As a child, I didn’t question it too much. I loved spending weekends at my dad’s place. Rachel was sweet and caring, and my dad always brought me toys. But things changed when a friend asked why my dad lived with another woman. Suddenly,

it didn’t feel normal anymore. I started comparing my family to others and wondering why mine wasn’t like theirs. When I pressed my mom for the truth, she always dodged it. Frustrated, I began seeing Rachel not as my loving godmother, but as the woman who stood in the way of my parents being together. I became distant, cold. Rachel noticed, but I never explained why. Over time, I buried my questions and tried to move on. Years later,