The first time I realized how small I was, I was standing in a house with too many windows.
They weren't normal windows either. They were tall, wide, stretched from floor to ceiling. The kind you see in magazines that brag about "open spaces" and "natural light." But to me, those glass walls felt like a cage. Everything inside was on display. Every breath, every step, every crack in my smile.
I hated them.
I still do.
That house belonged to my foster family. Rich, polished, picture-perfect. They weren't cruel, at least not in the obvious ways. They gave me a bedroom, clothes that didn't have holes, and a chair at the dinner table. They introduced me to their friends as "our girl" and smiled like they were saints for taking me in. But their smiles never reached their eyes.
I wasn't theirs. Not really.
I was a piece of charity they could polish and set by the window. Something to brag about when the wine glasses were full and the gossip ran dry.
By the time I got to law school, I thought I'd gotten used to it. The stares. The polite words with sharp edges. The feeling of being watched all the time, even when no one was looking. But some nights, when I walked into that house after class, it all came back. The glass walls. The silence that was somehow louder than traffic outside. The reminder that I didn't belong.
That night, the house was glowing. Literally. Every light was on, bouncing off the marble floors like the place was begging to be noticed. My foster mother was sitting at the long dining table, scrolling through her phone like she was allergic to conversation. My foster father had his laptop open, papers spread across the polished wood as if the table wasn't meant for meals but for deals.
I slipped inside quietly, trying to make myself invisible. My backpack hung heavy on my shoulder, stuffed with casebooks that smelled like dust and stress. I hadn't eaten all day, but the thought of sitting at that table, trying to force small talk, made my stomach twist.
"Late again," my foster mother said without looking up. Her tone wasn't angry. It never was. Just… flat. Like she was commenting on the weather.
"Study group," I muttered.
She hummed, the kind of sound that carried more judgment than words ever could.
My foster father didn't even look at me. He just flipped a page and scribbled something down. I could've been a shadow for all he cared.
I moved toward the kitchen, hoping for leftovers, but the counters were spotless, not a crumb in sight. Our housekeeper must've cleaned already. She didn't leave food out for me unless I asked, and I hated asking. It always felt like begging.
I opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and closed it softly.
"You need to think about your future," my foster father finally said, eyes still glued to his screen. His voice carried across the glass walls, steady, rehearsed. "Law school isn't cheap. We expect results."
I bit the inside of my cheek. Results. That's all I was to him. A report card, a résumé, a potential success story he could claim credit for at his firm's next gala.
"I'm working hard," I said quietly.
"Working hard isn't enough," he snapped, finally glancing up. His eyes were cold, sharp behind his glasses. "You need to be the best. No excuses."
I nodded, gripping the water bottle so tight my fingers hurt.
My foster mother finally set her phone down. "Don't pressure her," she said, but her words were hollow. She didn't mean them. She never meant anything she said when it came to me.
He didn't respond. He never argued with her when it came to me because he didn't care enough to fight.
I stood there, the silence stretching, heavy as those glass walls. Then I turned and climbed the stairs, each step echoing through the house like I was trespassing.
My room was at the end of the hall. It looked perfect from the outside. Queen-sized bed, soft rug, a desk by the window. Anyone else would've thought I was lucky. But the truth was, the room never felt like mine. The furniture wasn't chosen for me. The books on the shelves weren't mine. Even the framed art on the walls came from some store catalog.
It was a stage set, not a home.
I dropped my bag on the desk and sat on the edge of the bed. My chest ached with the weight of unspoken words. Sometimes I wanted to scream at them, to tell them I wasn't a trophy, that I didn't need their money or their pity. But the words never came out. I'd learned early that silence kept me safe.
I opened my laptop, pulling up tomorrow's case brief. The words swam in front of me. Tort law, negligence, liability. My eyes blurred, but I forced myself to keep reading. If I couldn't belong in that house, maybe I could belong in the courtroom someday.
That thought kept me going. The idea that one day, I'd stand in front of a judge, my voice steady, my arguments sharp, and nobody could dismiss me as just "the foster girl."
But even that dream felt fragile tonight. My hands trembled as I typed, my heart still pounding from the dinner table exchange.
I shut the laptop and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Claire, one of my classmates.
You coming tomorrow night? Bar crawl. Everyone's in.
I stared at the screen. Part of me wanted to say yes, to lose myself in cheap beer and loud music, to forget about glass walls and case briefs. But another part knew I wouldn't belong there either. Law school parties weren't made for people like me. They were made for kids who grew up in penthouses, who wore designer shoes to class, who never had to wonder where they fit.
I typed back: I'll think about it.
I didn't mean it. I already knew I wouldn't go.
Sometimes I wondered what my parents would've thought of all this. Would they have hated the glass walls as much as I did? Would they have told me to fight harder, to stop shrinking myself? Or would they have held me, told me it was okay to feel lost?
I tried to remember their voices, but they'd grown faint over the years. Grief has a way of erasing details, leaving only the ache behind.
I curled up on the bed, clutching the water bottle like it was a lifeline.
....
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight streaming through the glass. It was blinding, intrusive. The kind of light that didn't ask permission.
I dragged myself up, got dressed in jeans and a plain sweater, and shoved my books into my bag. When I walked downstairs, my foster mother was already dressed in her silk blouse, heels clicking against the marble.
"Breakfast?" she asked without looking at me.
"I'll grab something on campus," I muttered.
She nodded, distracted, already scrolling through her phone again. My foster father wasn't around. Probably left for work hours ago.
I slipped out the front door, breathing in the city air like it was the first real thing I'd felt in days. The street was alive—cars honking, vendors shouting, people rushing in every direction. For a moment, I felt invisible again. But this time, it was a relief.
I blended into the crowd, letting the noise swallow me whole.
On the subway, I found a seat by the window and hugged my bag to my chest. Across from me, two students laughed over something on their phones. A man in a suit shouted into his headset. An old woman dozed off, clutching her purse tight.
This was where I felt most at home—in the chaos, in the mix of people who didn't care who I was. No glass walls here. Just metal, grime, and motion.
As the train screeched into the next station, I caught my reflection in the window. My eyes looked tired, shadowed, older than my years.
But under all that, I saw something else.
Something alive.
Something that refused to break.
And I knew, no matter how much they tried to box me in, I'd find a way out.
Even if it killed me.