When I was fifteen, my father died—and his best friend Santino took me in. He gave me everything, then claimed me at eighteen. For eight years, I was his bed partner, his outlet, his doll. He tracked my phone, forbade me from wearing makeup, put his hands around my neck—but never once said he loved me. When I got pregnant, he said, "I'll take care of the child. You don't have to be responsible for his life." I asked three times. He stayed silent three times. Then another man gave me in three days what Santino wouldn't give in ten years—and I finally understood: my match had burned out. His "I love you" came too late.
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