Chapter 2
The Weight of Empty Bottles
The chapter recounts the author's childhood with alcoholic parents, leading to her emancipation and survival on the streets at a young age.
The house smelled like stale beer and something sour I couldn’t name. My parents were there, but not in the way parents are supposed to be. They drank. I learned to move quietly, to make myself small when the bottles clinked too loud or the voices turned sharp. There was never enough of anything—food, warmth, safety. Just the weight of their emptiness pressing down on me, even when they weren’t looking.
I don’t remember the day I decided to leave. Maybe it wasn’t a decision at all. Maybe it was just the moment I realized the streets couldn’t be worse than the silence at home. I was young, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew how to disappear. I knew how to make sure no one noticed me slipping out the door, my shoes quiet on the steps, my breath held until I was far enough away that the house was just a shape in the dark.
The streets didn’t care who I was. They didn’t ask questions. I slept where I could, ate when I found something, and learned to trust no one. It wasn’t freedom. It was just another kind of survival. But it was mine.