I was born out of wedlock. I remember that one of the first realizations I had, as a child, was that I did not have a real home. My memories of my formative years are like a void, but I do remember a woman with mestiza looks who combed my hair, put me to bed and joined me in the Angel of God prayer.
I would learn later on that that woman was my maternal grandmother. When she died, my biological mother, whom I thought was my older sister, brought me to live with another family. I was told that the man was my biological father. I instantly “belonged” to a family — complete with a father, a stepmother and three half brothers.
From that moment on, I had to do a lot of adjustments, which was not easy for a little girl like me. Living with my new family was like riding a roller coaster for the first time.
Since I was the only girl, I feel like I should have been a “daddy’s girl.” I should have basked in the affection my father used to show me. But every time my dad would kiss me, I would always wipe it off. His gestures of affection did not feel welcoming. I did not feel love from his embrace and touch. Our usual father-and-daughter cuddling moments started to annoy me and give me goosebumps. Why was it like that? Why did I feel threatened?
On hindsight, I know now that even at such a young age, I already felt the difference between a father’s love and seductive caresses. But back then there was nobody to turn to, no one to answer my questions. Confusion started to pile up in my brain — utter agony for a seven-year-old, lonely child.