When I married into his family, I truly believed I was stepping into something beautiful. A big family. Loud, lively, connected. The kind of family I hoped would fill the spaces mine never could.

It always started with that question: What’s wrong with me? A question so familiar it carved a permanent groove through my nervous system. I asked it whenever I was misunderstood, mistreated, excluded, blamed, or expected to tolerate the intolerable.