While the volatile atmosphere of our home cast a long shadow over Liam, Lila, and me, Caleb, my oldest brother, existed in a slightly different orbit. Caleb was educated at a private Catholic high school exclusively for boys. High school for him became intertwined with the quiet focus of the golf course, a sanctuary he’d discovered at ten, under our grandfather’s patient guidance. As our chaotic home life unfolded, the golf range transformed into his refuge, a place where he could find order and control amidst the unpredictable storm within our walls. The expense of this pursuit puzzled my young mind, given our family’s strained finances. Years later, the truth surfaced: our maternal grandparents, who held him in such high regard, had quietly been funding both his passion and his education.

Caleb wasn’t simply aloof; a deeper awareness of our household’s dark realities, I now believe, fueled his strategic avoidance. Golf was more than a hobby; it was an escape, his hours stretching past sunset at the driving range, his nights often spent in the relative calm of friends’ homes. While Liam, Lila, and I navigated the immediate chaos together, Caleb carved out a self-imposed exile, a way to shield himself from the direct line of Riccardo’s unpredictable anger. Strangely, and something I accepted for years as a consequence of age, Caleb seemed to evade the brunt of Riccardo’s beatings that Liam and I endured. It was a disparity I attributed to our younger years, a naive belief in seniority as a form of protection. Only later would I question this unsettling difference, wondering about the unspoken reasons behind it, a subtle yet significant divide in our shared experience. This created a separation born not of indifference, but of a profound understanding and a desperate need for self-preservation.

Growing up, Caleb was simply my brother, the ten-year age gap creating a natural distance. As I matured, the differences between us became more pronounced. Snippets of stories from my maternal grandparents painted a picture of his early life, spent with Mom in their home, raised largely by them. He occupied a unique space within their family, a figure somewhere between child and grandchild, a recurring joke among us younger cousins.

Yet, the most striking difference was visual. Liam, Lila, and I shared the brown, Hispanic skin and similar dark hair of our parents. Caleb, however, had black skin and tightly curled hair. Ironically, being homeschooled broadened my exposure to diversity in ways a traditional school might not have. Our park groups were a vibrant mix: large families, children with disabilities and exceptional talents, kids of traveling parents, those undergoing medical treatments, and families embracing alternative learning philosophies. This constant exposure made me acutely aware of similarities and differences, and a childlike curiosity began to gnaw at the discrepancy I observed within my own family. Nicknamed “Why Why” for my persistent questions, I was a child driven by an insatiable need to understand the ‘why’ behind everything.

Around the age of eight, a seemingly innocuous thought solidified into a question. As Estella, Liam, Caleb, Lila, and I walked towards the car, ready for another unpredictable day, I turned to Estella and asked, “Who is Liam’s dad?” The reaction was instantaneous and terrifying. Without a flicker of hesitation, Estella was in my face, her fingers digging into my arm in a painful pinch. Her voice, low and venomous, hissed, “Don’t you ever ask that question again. It is none of your business.” Fear constricted my throat. I nodded mutely, scrambling into the back seat, the unspoken command echoing in the tense silence.

Estella’s driving was another source of constant anxiety. Every other car on the road was perceived as a personal affront, a threat to her dominance. Speeding and reckless lane changes were her norm, our pleas to slow down, fueled by fear and car sickness, dismissed as “dramatic.” That day, after her hissed reprimand, the already erratic driving intensified, the car lurching and swerving as I wrestled with the guilt of having subjected my siblings to Estella’s anger and her dangerous maneuvers. But what Estella didn’t realize in that moment of sharp pain and fear, was that her violent reaction had ignited an unquenchable curiosity within me. Her intense sensitivity surrounding Caleb’s father became a beacon, an irresistible mystery that would only fuel my relentless search for the hidden truth. The question was forbidden, but the desire to know had taken root, and I knew, with the unwavering certainty of a child, that I would eventually uncover the secrets she so desperately guarded.