The garage was her stage, a haven carved from cement and clutter where she danced beneath the shifting light of a setting sun. With a headset snug over her ears—a Christmas gift from Grandmother—she spun through her own world, escaping the cries of a newborn brother and the ache of feeling out of place in her mother’s new family. Each plié was a whispered plea, each leap a shout into the void: Notice me. I’m still here. In this space, surrounded by tools and flickering reflections, she found solace and strength, one step at a time.

The day Aunt Sue drove our U-Haul out of South Carolina is one I’ll never forget. As we pulled away from Daddy Number Two’s house, she glanced at me with a sly grin and said, “We gotta get you guys outta here. That man’s got eight wives locked in his basement.”

At the time, I didn’t know whether to laugh or be terrified. I took her words literally, filing them away with all the other odd, fragmented memories of my childhood. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I realized Aunt Sue’s stories were more than just jokes—they were her way of navigating a life full of hardships with humor as her armor.

Aunt Sue, the oldest of three siblings, had been through a lot. Life in the small town wasn’t always kind, and Granddaddy, with his tough love and hard lessons, was a man who could be as mean as a snake. Yet, Aunt Sue always faced life head-on, armed with a quick wit and a story for every occasion.

But even then, even as a little girl, I understood something deeper: we were running. Running toward something better, or at least something different. It wasn’t just a physical escape—it was a symbolic one.