The Scars that Made Me

Chapter 1

The first thing Ayla Reyes learned about love was that it came with strings.

Not the soft, invisible kind that tied people together, but the sharp ones—like fishing wire, cutting deeper the more you struggled. In her house, affection was rationed like water during a drought. Too much noise, too much need, and the supply ran out.

She was five when she realized silence made her safer.

---

The kitchen was always her father’s kingdom. He didn’t cook much, not really—just reheated leftovers or scrambled eggs with too much salt—but the moment he planted himself on the creaking wooden chair by the table, the air shifted. His belt stayed slung across the back of the chair, not on his waist, like a warning sign. Ayla learned early that the belt wasn’t just for holding up pants.

That night, her mother was late from work again. Ayla sat at the corner of the kitchen table with her coloring book, pressing her crayon too hard until it broke in half. Her little brother, Mateo, toddled nearby, dragging his toy car across the tiles.

“Quiet,” their father snapped, though neither had spoken. The word cracked across the room like thunder, and Mateo froze mid-step.

Ayla lowered her eyes to the broken crayon. She wanted to say sorry, though she didn’t know what for. That was the trick of it—sorry was a shield. Sometimes it worked.

But not tonight.

“Why is your mother always late?” her father muttered, more to himself than to them. Then his eyes landed on Ayla. “Didn’t I tell you to clean this mess? Look at the table. Papers everywhere.”

Her heart leapt to her throat. She scrambled to gather the pages of her coloring book, stacking them neatly, though her small hands fumbled.

“I—I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered.

His hand slammed against the table, rattling the plates. Mateo burst into tears.

“Sorry doesn’t clean up messes!”

Ayla flinched, arms around her coloring book like it could shield her. The belt on the chair seemed to glint in the fluorescent light.

She wanted to tell him she’d been waiting for Mama, that she’d been good all day, that she hadn’t spilled the milk even when Mateo pushed the glass too close to the edge. But words felt dangerous. Words made him angrier.

So she nodded, lips pressed shut.

Her father leaned back, satisfied not by her obedience but by her fear. He liked the house quiet. And Ayla, good girl that she was, learned to become silence itself.

...

By the time she was seven, Ayla had mastered the art of invisibility.

At school, she was the model student—raising her hand only when she was sure of the answer, finishing her homework in neat handwriting, smiling politely at teachers. At home, she kept her voice soft, her laughter tucked into her chest.

Her mother noticed sometimes.

“Ayla, anak, you don’t always have to be so serious,” she would say, folding laundry late at night. But her mother’s smile was tired, her body heavy with the weight of double shifts at the hospital. She loved her children, Ayla believed that, but she was also distant—her affection wrapped in exhaustion, not warmth.

So Ayla took it upon herself to help. She washed the dishes without being asked, helped Mateo with his letters, and kept her report cards spotless. Every gold star was another chance to see her mother’s fleeting smile, another chance to keep her father’s temper at bay.

Being perfect was the only shield she had.

...

One afternoon, when she was nine, Ayla came home with a certificate from school. “Best in Reading,” it said in bold letters. She clutched it to her chest all the way home, imagining her mother’s face lighting up, her father’s approving nod.

But when she burst into the living room, certificate in hand, she found her parents mid-argument.

Her mother’s voice was sharp, her father’s louder. Money again. It was always money.

Ayla froze in the doorway.

Her father noticed her first. “What?” he barked.

She held up the certificate with trembling hands. “I—I got this today.”

For a moment, silence. Her mother turned, eyes softening, but before she could speak, her father scoffed.

“Reading? What’s that going to feed you? You think books will put food on the table?”

The certificate crumpled in Ayla’s grip.

Her mother tried, bless her, she did. “It’s good, Rey. She worked hard—”

“Hard? She sits and reads. That’s not hard. Ask her to scrub the floors, that’s hard.”

Heat crawled up Ayla’s neck. Shame burned where pride had been moments before. She wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the carpet.

Her father waved her off. “Go to your room. Don’t interrupt.”

And just like that, her small triumph turned to dust.

Later, alone in her room, Ayla smoothed the creases on her certificate and slipped it into a shoebox under her bed. The shoebox would grow heavy over the years—stuffed with awards, drawings, little scraps of proof that she mattered, even if no one cared to look.

That night she wrote in her notebook, clumsy handwriting sprawling across the page:

*Dear Future Ayla, I hope one day, someone will be proud of you. Not because you’re useful. Just because you’re you.*

...

By twelve, Ayla had learned to wear masks.

At school, she was cheerful and reliable, the kind of friend who shared her lunch even when she was hungry, who helped others with homework, who teachers trusted with classroom keys.

At home, she became the mediator, smoothing over her parents’ arguments, distracting Mateo when the shouting grew too loud.

Inside, though, she carried storms.

Sometimes she would lie awake at night, staring at the cracked ceiling, wondering if love was supposed to feel like this—like something you chased but never caught. Like a carrot dangled in front of you, always out of reach.

But she never told anyone. Not her friends, not her teachers. Vulnerability was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Instead, she poured everything into being “the good girl.” If she was perfect enough, maybe one day it would be enough. Maybe one day, love would finally feel safe.

...

The memory that stayed with her most vividly was from when she was fourteen.

It was Christmas Eve, the house buzzing with relatives and the scent of lechon. Laughter spilled from the living room where cousins played games, their joy ringing out freely.

Ayla sat by the tree, carefully arranging the gifts her mother had bought. She had saved her allowance for weeks to buy Mateo a small toy robot, wrapping it neatly with recycled paper.

Her father entered the room, already tipsy from beer. His gaze landed on her.

“You, Ayla. Sing something for the guests.”

She hesitated. “Papa, I—I don’t want to.”

His brow darkened. “Don’t want to? After all the food we put on the table? You think you’re too good for us now?”

Her stomach twisted. Eyes darted to the guests, who had fallen silent, watching. Shame prickled her skin.

So she stood, voice trembling as she sang the carol she’d learned in school. Her father smirked, satisfied, raising his glass as if he’d won.

The room erupted in applause, but Ayla felt hollow.

Later, when everyone had gone to bed, she sat alone by the tree, staring at the blinking lights.

She whispered to herself, so soft no one could hear: “One day, I’ll sing because I want to. Not because I have to.”

...

Looking back, Ayla would one day understand: every scar she carried began here. In the silence of her childhood. In the performances she gave to earn scraps of affection. In the way she erased herself, piece by piece, to survive.

But at fourteen, she didn’t know any of that yet.

All she knew was that love, in her house, was something you earned by being small, obedient, perfect.

And she was willing to break herself into pieces if that meant someone, anyone, would love her back.