"What's this?"
Our stepmother took it from him.
"An educational program."
He frowned.
"For who?"
She looked toward me.
"For children who need more structure."
I stopped eating.
"What children?"
She smiled.
"Don't worry about it."
But over the following days, she began mentioning the program whenever I did something wrong.
If I forgot to put away my shoes, she said the school would teach me discipline.
If I cried, she said the school didn't tolerate tantrums.
And if I asked for Dad, she told me children at the program weren't allowed to manipulate adults by pretending to be helpless.
I became terrified of the brochure.
I started checking the kitchen counter every morning to see whether it was there.
Sometimes I found it beneath a pile of mail.
Other times it lay beside her laptop.
I once saw a page filled with questions about a child's emotional behavior.
My name was written at the top.
I didn't understand every word.
But I recognized phrases about separation anxiety, rule-breaking, and persistent defiance.
I knew those words didn't describe me the way my stepmother described them.
I wasn't trying to break rules.
I was trying desperately to follow them.
But no matter how careful I became, she always found something new.
One night, while Dad was away on a two-day business trip, she stood in my bedroom doorway and announced that she was considering sending me to the program.
I began crying.
"Please don't."
She folded her arms.
"Then behave."
I nodded frantically.
"I will."
She looked toward my mother's photograph, which I'd taken out of the drawer.
Then she smiled.
"Maybe some time away from this house would finally help you stop living in the past."
After she left, I climbed into my brother's bed.
I was shaking.
He woke immediately.
"What's wrong?"
I told him.
His expression hardened.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, "She's not sending you anywhere without Dad knowing."
I wanted to believe him.
But I had already begun wondering whether Dad knew more than he admitted.
The week before the confrontation, my father received a message about my supposed behavioral problems.
I learned about it later, after he began reviewing the correspondence.
My stepmother had contacted a school-admissions coordinator, describing me as emotionally unstable, disruptive, and increasingly difficult to manage.
She claimed that I'd threatened other children, refused basic instructions, and displayed severe distress whenever separated from a parent.
Some of those descriptions contained fragments of truth twisted beyond recognition.