Bellevue, Washington, was one of the places that brought me the most joy. It was a safe haven for me growing up, offering refuge from the abuse, confusion, fighting, and stress of home in Los Altos.

It was where my mother’s sister, Aunt Dorothy, lived, and every summer, George and I would go together—our trip, our escape. In those moments, I could indulge in the fantasy of leaving behind my dad and stepmom for good, dreaming of a new life in Washington, free from the unpredictable chaos that always loomed in the background.

After our mother’s death, my Aunt offered to take George and me in, but my father refused. I later discovered that my mother had named our Aunt our guardian in her Will. However, my father had already lined up a team of lawyers and others, prepared to cause turmoil if she pursued legal action.

My Uncle Ramon wanted to avoid bringing that chaos into their lives.

Aunt Dorothy, ever the peacemaker, told us it was essential to grow up with our dad to build a real relationship. It wasn’t until years later that I learned how much she resented being coerced into saying that by our father. She knew how much we hated being in Los Altos, and every goodbye at the end of summer would find me clinging to her, unwilling to let go. She put on a brave face, but the pain was mutual.

As an adult, after years of therapy, I finally told my Aunt how difficult it was to return to Dad’s after every summer. The anxiety was so overwhelming that I’d get physically ill on the plane, unable to breathe, with a knot in my stomach for days after arriving home. My Aunt confessed that she, too, would get sick after we left, struggling to trust our dad, who was neglectful and reckless, while Dotti was prone to violent outbursts.

The summer visits were part of my dad’s agreement with her, and he could revoke them at any time.

Life could have been so different if I had only confided in my Aunt about what was happening at home. But for those two months each summer, I could pretend I was free—just George and me, along with our cousins, Aunt and Uncle.

We had daily adventures, biked, camped, fished, and sailed. We stayed at their cabin in Idaho, swam at the country club, had BBQs, and enjoyed being children.

There was always something to do. We rarely watched TV, and this was before the internet. Evenings were filled with board games, and I’d stay reading late.

The three boys would get into their usual mischief, sometimes trying to scare me by pretending to be vampires and tapping my bedroom window. I especially loved going to the cabin in Idaho, right on the lake. The water was cold, but I would dive in without fear, swimming to the platform, past where my feet could touch the rocky bottom.

I couldn’t go beyond the platform, and lifeguards on the shore would blow their whistle at anyone who tried. I’d look back at the shore, barely able to make out my Aunt under her beach umbrella, with her hat and sunglasses, while my cousins and George played on the beach, building sandcastles.

I’d float on my back, imagining some giant lake fish lurking below, but I loved being a kid during those summers.

The last time Dad let us visit our Aunt, I was 15, and George had just turned 13.

Looking back at the pictures from those summers, the joy radiating from us is undeniable.

I never understood for a long time why my dad stopped those visits.

The debilitating anxiety I used to feel is now a distant memory; the mistrust I had in my dad is something I’ll never forget.

The only person I truly trusted was myself.

Bellevue, Washington, was my Mecca. For two months every summer, it was the center of my faith. Our trip back to the airport wasn’t complete without a lobster dinner at a restaurant, a ritual that marked the end of our stay.

Even now, I seek refuge near the water.

That final summer, I was blissfully ignorant of the storm about to engulf my life. How could I have known that everything was about to change?

I had no idea that I would soon be trafficked by my father, become pregnant, undergo an illegal abortion arranged by my dad, lose a friend to suicide, and run away multiple times, even once to attend Woodstock. I didn’t know that my happy place in Washington was about to disappear forever.

Yet, despite everything, how could I have ended up anywhere other than where I am today?

It’s as if a homing beacon has been calling my soul back, urging me to remember where I came from, to reconnect with my center.