Chapter 1: Born Under a Bad Sign

When I was twenty-nine, my own father strangled me to death. Yeah. You read that right.

That’s a hell of a way to start a story, isn’t it? Even now, the memory hits me—hard. Like a punch to the gut—my father, Leonard Walker, hands wrapped around my neck. Sometimes, I still wake up in the middle of the night, gasping, feeling those phantom fingers. But this isn’t just about the end. It’s about everything that led there.

My father’s name was Leonard Walker. Because I was a girl, he never liked me from the start.

I remember the look on his face when I was born—like the world had played a cruel joke on him. He never hid his disappointment, not even from the nurses. It was like I’d failed him before I’d even opened my eyes. Some welcome to the world.

When my grandpa heard I was born, he stormed out and never came back.

He slammed the door so hard the window rattled. That silence? Worse than any argument, my mom used to say. Grandpa never sent a card, never called for birthdays—just vanished, like I’d erased the Walker line by being a girl.

To them, only boys could carry on the Walker name. Having a girl? That was just bad luck.

It was like I was a walking omen, a black cat crossing their path every day. Family reunions? I was the afterthought. The shadow in the corner. Sometimes I wondered if they even saw me at all.

Because my mother had a heart condition and couldn’t have another child, Leonard never let her forget it. He called her useless every chance he got.

He’d mutter under his breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear. Sometimes he’d slam the fridge shut or throw his keys on the table just to prove a point. The tension in our house? It was alive. Always lurking.

But my mother wasn’t a pushover. She couldn’t stand those baseless accusations and often fought with Leonard about it.

She shouted back, even if her voice shook. I’d hear her at night, telling him she was more than just a baby machine, that she deserved better. I clung to those moments—they made me believe strength could look like her, even when the world said otherwise.

Leonard lost his job when I was five, and after that, he ran a hot dog cart downtown.

He’d come home smelling like onions and cheap mustard, his hands red from the cold. He’d toss his apron onto the couch and complain about the city, the customers, the weather. Never himself, though. Never.

He blamed all his misfortune on me, standing out there in the wind and sun:

"Ever since your mother gave birth to a money-draining freeloader like you, my luck’s been garbage! Jinx!"

He didn’t care who heard. Not even the neighbors. I’d stare at my sneakers, wishing I could disappear. The word ‘jinx’ followed me around like a second name.

Whenever my mother heard this, she’d jump right in, shouting back.

She’d storm into the room, voice sharp as a whip, defending me with everything she had. Even after the fights, she’d kneel down, brush my hair back, and whisper, “You’re not bad luck. You’re my miracle.”

Back then, I was just a kid. I thought their arguments were my fault.

I’d lie awake listening to their voices through the wall, thinking if I just tried harder, if I was just better, maybe things would be different. Kids always think they’re the center of the universe. For better or worse.

I even used to think—if I just got straight A’s, maybe my parents would stop fighting.

I’d stare at my homework until the numbers blurred. If I could just fix my family with a pencil and a stack of worksheets. Sometimes I’d make deals with God, promising to be perfect if it meant a little peace.

So I worked my butt off, and every parent-teacher conference, the teachers would praise me.

They’d tell my mom I was bright, hardworking, a joy to have in class. I’d watch her smile, her eyes lit up with pride, and for a moment I’d feel like maybe I’d done something right.

But it was always my mother who attended. But Leonard? He never came.

She’d sit in the tiny plastic chairs, knees pressed together, jotting notes in her little notebook. Leonard never showed. I used to tell myself he was just busy, but deep down I knew he didn’t care.

He’d just sneer and say, “Guess my genes are good. Too bad they didn’t go to a son.”

He laughed, but it stung. Every time. I’d stand in the hallway, clutching my report card, wishing I could disappear into the wallpaper.

And then they’d go at it again.

The shouting went on until midnight. I’d pull my pillow over my head, but the words always found me. My mom always defended me, but it never seemed to matter.

Life went on like this, full of arguments. Leonard was always chasing a quick buck. That’s when he got hooked on gambling.

He started coming home later and later, smelling like cheap beer and cigarette smoke. Sometimes he’d have a wad of cash, other times nothing but excuses. The tension in the house got even worse.