When I was 14, my boyfriend moved into my parent’s house.
Not “stayed over” sometimes.
Not “had dinner with the family on weekends.”
No. He. Lived. With. Us.
We played house. We argued like a married couple.
And the adults in our lives—mine especially—acted like this was normal. Like I wasn’t a child. Like I didn’t need protection, but a partner.
I look back now and think:
What in the actual fuck?
Dear Reader: I have a fifteen-year-old now, and never could I ever imagine handing her over to a boy and saying, “Here, play house. Good luck.”
At the time, I didn’t question it, though. I thought I was cool and in love. I thought that was freedom.
What I didn’t know is that it was the start of a pattern—
Of being too responsible, too soon.
Of being put in adult roles before I’d even finished being a kid.
Of thinking love meant losing myself.
Of thinking approval was love.
Of thinking pain was proof I was doing it right.
Because when the people who are supposed to protect you don’t—
When they actually make it worse—
You start to believe that abandonment is just part of the deal.
That being loved means being used.
That your needs will always come last.
And let me tell you something: Unlearning that? That’s the real love story.
And you know what’s wild?
No one stopped it.
Not my mom. Not my dad. Not a teacher. Not a neighbor. Not a single grown-up in my life stepped in and said, “This isn’t okay.”
Instead, they let it happen.
Some even encouraged it. My dad treated my boyfriend like a son. Took him places. Laughed with him. Bonded.
He didn’t ask how I was feeling.
He asked if my boyfriend wanted to borrow his tools.
And so there I was, a 14-year-old girl playing wife in a house where I still needed permission to go to the mall with my girlfriends.
I wasn’t even old enough to drive. But I was old enough, apparently, to cohabitate with my boyfriend.
Old enough to play maid, emotional support, therapist, and live-in girlfriend—while still trying to figure out geometry and how to survive high school.
And when that relationship started to get toxic—and oh, it did—guess who got blamed?
Me.
For being dramatic. For being emotional. For not “handling things better.”
As if any 14-year-old is equipped to handle manipulation, gaslighting, and heartbreak with grace.
As if I was supposed to know how to navigate love and abuse in the same breath.
But I did what I always did back then: I kept it quiet. I made excuses. I tried to be good enough, calm enough, enough, enough, enough to make it all okay.
Because deep down, I thought it was my job.
I had already learned how to shrink myself. How to make room for other people’s chaos.
How to keep my needs small enough to survive.
That relationship was just the first chapter of that story.
And it wouldn’t be the last.
It took me years to realize I wasn’t crazy—I was conditioned. Conditioned to carry more than I should’ve. To confuse love with labor. To mistake silence for strength.
And the truth is? I’m still unlearning it. Still figuring out where I end, and someone else’s expectations begin. Still rewriting the story that started way too damn early.
If you’ve been there—if you are there—I see you. You weren’t wrong for needing more. You weren’t too much. You were too young to be holding the weight of other people’s bullshit, and none of it was your fault.
This isn’t just a memory. It’s a reclamation.
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