I was 13 and living by Dale’s rules, which mostly meant staying out of sight. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I ran to the only place that still felt like mine—my mom’s grave. I expected silence.
Instead, I found someone waiting there who made my whole world feel suddenly unstable.
I was 13 when it happened.
My name’s Wyatt.
After my mom died, the house got quiet, and Dale, my stepfather, came up with a slew of new rules.
“Don’t make noise. Don’t embarrass me.
And when I have company, you disappear.”
He loved company. Coworkers.
“Business buddies.” Guys who laughed like Dale was a celebrity.
When the doorbell rang, he’d glance at me.
“Room,” he’d say. “Stay there.”
He hated my black hoodies and band tees. If I wore eyeliner, he’d mutter, “Weird.” My mom used to say, “You’re allowed to be you.” Dale definitely disagreed.
He could flip in a second.
In front of guests, he was friendly.
Alone with me, he got cold.
One day he caught me heading for the kitchen while his friends were over.
“Where are you going?” he hissed.
He grabbed my wrist and squeezed. “Not like that,” he said.
“Not in front of them.”
“It’s just a hoodie.”
“You trying to make me look bad?” he asked.
“No.”
He let go and pointed down the hall. “Room.
Now.”
That night I drank from the bathroom sink.
I found ways to get away from home.
I stayed out longer after school. I took long walks and sat behind the library until it closed. Anything to avoid being alone with him.
The Saturday everything changed, Dale had people over again.
Laughter downstairs.
A game blasting. I was at my desk when my door flew open.
“Stay in here,” Dale snapped.
“Don’t bother me.”
He slammed the door and yelled, “STAY IN THERE AND DON’T BOTHER ME!”
Someone downstairs laughed. Dale laughed with them.
Like I was the punchline.
I waited until his voice went sweet again.
Then I slid my window up.
First floor. Easy drop.
I climbed out and ran.
I didn’t pack anything. I only had one place that still felt safe.
The cemetery was a mile and a half away.
Cold enough to sting.
I walked fast with my head down, trying not to picture Dale finding my empty room.
The gate squeaked. I flinched anyway.
My mom’s grave sat under a big oak.
Dale picked it like he was picking paint.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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