They sit with him as if nothing is heavy,
as if his presence is simple, natural,
a son, a brother,
a member of the family.
With me,
their eyes shift,
their words turn soft,
too soft,
as if every sentence might break me.
They circle me with suspicion,
not trust,
not warmth—
but the careful distance
one keeps around the fragile.
I am not porcelain.
I am not asylum walls.
I am not a burden in their story.
I am their blood,
their daughter,
their reflection—
yet treated like a stranger
who must be handled with gloves.
If only they could see:
I do not need a padded room.
I need a place
where love does not question itself.