Raised Between His Sheets
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When I was fifteen, my father died—and his best friend Santino took me in.
He gave me everything, then claimed me at eighteen.
For eight years, I was his bed partner, his outlet, his doll.
He tracked my phone, forbade me from wearing makeup, put his hands around my neck—but never once said he loved me.
When I got pregnant, he said, "I'll take care of the child. You don't have to be responsible for his life."
I asked three times. He stayed silent three times.
Then another man gave me in three days what Santino wouldn't give in ten years—and I finally understood: my match had burned out.
His "I love you" came too late.