I think about that birthday more often than I’d like to admit. The year I was eight or nine, Teresa decided to throw a birthday party for me. She put up decorations, invited kids from church, and arranged games and food. It seemed like, for once, maybe I’d get a real celebration—a normal moment like other kids had. And I’ll admit, for a fleeting second, I believed it. I thought, maybe, just maybe, Teresa would let me have this.
But with Teresa, there was always a catch. As the party day came closer, I found out what it was: a massive pile of homework she dumped on me. I was homeschooled, so she controlled every page I read, every task I completed, every answer I wrote down. And on this particular day, she decided that my entrance ticket to my own birthday party would be finishing all of it. She knew it was more than I could get through in time—she always knew. But I sat down, furiously scribbling answers, racing against the sounds of kids arriving and the smell of cake wafting through the house.
While I sat in that room, feeling like a prisoner in a home that was supposed to be mine, I could hear everyone else having fun. Kids laughing, running around, the sound of my favorite game on repeat. It was my birthday, but I wasn’t invited.
My Grandma Richins stopped by that day, too. I can still remember her gentle, worn voice as she hugged me in the doorway of that room. She whispered, “It’s wrong what she’s doing to you.” I didn’t need to ask who “she” was—I knew. Grandma saw the truth that no one else wanted to admit. She saw the side of Teresa that the church didn’t see, the bitterness Teresa reserved just for me.
But Grandma left, unable to change anything, and the party raged on without me. I finished the work hours later, after the last slice of cake was gone, after the guests had left. Alone in that room, it felt like even my birthday was a reminder of the control Teresa had over every part of my life.
And then there was Margot. She was everything to me back then—a girl from church with a smile that felt like sunlight on the few good days I had. I looked forward to seeing her every Sunday. It was a harmless crush, but it was one of the only things that felt like mine, something innocent and untainted by everything else. Teresa knew about my feelings for Margot, and she took every chance she could to make sure that even those moments didn’t come without a price.
I can’t remember what I did wrong that day, but Teresa made sure I’d never forget the punishment. She forced me into a diaper—just a diaper—and made me sit there, humiliated. I had to sit, half-dressed and feeling completely stripped of dignity. It felt like she was peeling away every part of me, showing me that nothing, not even my crush on a girl, was safe from her reach.
And, of course, Margot’s mom came over that day, bringing Margot with her. I don’t think it was an accident. I think Teresa wanted me to feel the sting of that shame, wanted Margot to see me like that. I never looked at her the same way again, and I don’t think she did either. Teresa didn’t just control my actions; she controlled how I saw myself, how I let others see me.
I look back now, and I realize that losing Caleb, as devastating as that was, was only one chapter in a longer, twisted book. That moment wasn’t the start of my story, and it sure as hell wasn’t the end. My life has been a constant series of losses and recoveries, each one layering over the last, leaving scars on top of scars. The story of “T.J.,” the name Teresa chose for me, didn’t just end when I left her house. It haunts me, shadows me. Even now, as Derrick Solano, there are days when I look in the mirror and see fragments of T.J., reminders of a boy who learned early that control and love weren’t the same things.
Today, I’m Derrick, and every day, I reclaim a little more of myself. But the past never leaves quietly. It shows up in unexpected moments, the whispers of memories I thought I’d buried. And I realize, each time, that my story isn’t just about what I lost—it’s about everything I’ve survived. And the journey isn’t over. It’s only beginning.
