It was the summer of '03. Alaina's mother had passed away six months earlier after a brutal battle with cancer—and everything had unraveled since.
Alaina sat on the wooden floor of their overheated living room, watching her baby sister play doctor with a row of worn-out dolls.
"When's Mommy coming back?" Angela asked again, her voice soft. "It's probably all dusty in that box they put her in."
She'd asked the same question nearly every day since the funeral.
Alaina glanced over at their older sister, Lydia. So did Angela. But Lydia didn't even flinch. She sat cross-legged on the couch, painting her nails a deep cherry red, pretending the rest of them didn't exist.
Upstairs, their brother Jonathan had snuck a girl into his room again. The thumps and moans drifting down the staircase were impossible to ignore.
"I think they're making a baby," Angela whispered.
Alaina nodded solemnly.
Lydia suddenly shot up, rage flashing across her face. "I'M CALLING PAPA!"
A few seconds later, Jonathan thundered downstairs. He grabbed Lydia by the arm and squeezed until she screamed.
"Mind your fucking business," he snarled, snatching the phone from her hand before storming back upstairs.
Life in Garland, Texas, had been grim since their mother died. Their father worked endless shifts at the factory to barely keep the lights on. But after work, he didn't come home—he went to the bar. Drank until he forgot who he was. Came home sometime after midnight, reeking of booze and rage.
Later, Alaina would say his blood was probably 90% alcohol and his teeth were just cigarette stumps.
She was only eight, but she'd already learned the house rules: stay quiet, stay small, and stay out of Papa's way.
And though she knew she was his "favorite," she hated him. Hated the way he looked at her. Hated what he did to all of them—for no reason at all.
If dinner wasn't ready, the back of his hand.
If the floor wasn't clean, the extension cord.
And if Alaina didn't come to him willingly, she'd sleep outside on the porch.
When he was sober—sober enough—he'd sit her on his knee and say she was going to be beautiful one day. Just like her mother.
One night, around 2 a.m., Papa stumbled in yelling, cursing the wind. Alaina jolted awake, grabbed Angela, and hid her under the bed before he could find her.
She always made sure Angela was hidden.
She was stronger. She could take it.
She crawled back into bed and closed her eyes, pretending to sleep when the bedroom door creaked open. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then held out his hand.
She took it.
From beneath the bed, she heard Angela sobbing softly. Alaina looked down, put a finger to her lips.
Angela stayed quiet, curled into herself, barely breathing.
Papa took Alaina to his room. Made her undress him. Touched her in ways that turned her stomach. And on the days she was at school, Angela stayed home with him. Sometimes, Alaina came home too late to stop it. Those were the worst days of all.
By the time she turned fourteen, things had only gotten worse. The beatings were more frequent. The threats more terrifying. But Alaina had changed. She no longer flinched. She fought back—biting, screaming, clawing at him if she had to. Even if it earned her bruises. Even if it meant Angela would be punished in her place.
Then, one afternoon, social services showed up. Angela had gone to school with a black eye and a swollen lip. They asked questions, but their father played the part—concerned, heartbroken, "doing his best" for his girls.
Nothing changed.
The following year, Alaina entered the Miss Teen Bluebonnet pageant and won three thousand dollars. Their father spent every cent on beer and cigarettes.
That was the summer she met Louis.
He was tall and lanky with a crooked smile that made her feel seen—like maybe, just maybe, she was still capable of being loved.
For a moment, she tasted something like happiness.
But it didn't last.
One afternoon, the school principal called home. Alaina had been caught kissing Louis behind the field bleachers. Her father snapped.
He broke her arm in two places.
"You little whore," he spat. "What're you gonna do when he gets you pregnant, huh? Bring it here?!"
Then he sent Jonathan to the school with a mission: make Louis disappear.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He cornered Louis at lunch and beat him unconscious.
The next day, Alaina showed up with a busted lip and a gash on her head. She told her teachers she fell from a tree. They didn't ask further.
Louis never came back to school. His parents refused to let Alaina visit. A week later, she got a letter from him. He was moving to California. It was over.
The day she read the letter was the same day her world ended.
The house was too quiet when she got home. Angela wasn't in their room.
She opened the door—and dropped to her knees.
Angela lay on the floor, motionless. In her hand was their father's handgun.
Gone.
In one breathless afternoon, Alaina lost the only good thing left in her life: her baby sister.
She held her until the paramedics came, sobbing, screaming, begging them not to take her away. Jonathan had to pry her loose.
After that, Alaina told the truth. She went to the police. Told them everything—what he'd done to them, what he did to Angela.
At trial, it came out that Angela had been pregnant.
With child.
After that, Alaina was separated from her remaining siblings and sent to live with her mother's sister in Ellsworth, Maine.
She started over.
A second chance.
And there, in a little town that didn't know her story, she met Josh Hamens—her high school sweetheart.
For the first time in years, she believed in love again.