For as long as I could remember, my home had been a place of routines.

Dinner at seven. Lights out by ten. Shoes always placed neatly by the door. My father believed discipline shaped character, and my mother usually balanced his strictness with quiet warmth. That was why what happened that year confused me so deeply—because it didn’t fit the pattern of the family I thought I knew.

It started with the showers.

One evening, as I was heading to my room after school, my father stopped me in the hallway. His expression was serious, almost irritated.

“You need to take a shower,” he said flatly. “A cold one. And use this.”

He handed me a bar of soap wrapped in plain packaging. It had a sharp, medicinal smell even through the paper.

I frowned. “I already showered this morning.”

“You smell unpleasant,” he replied. “Cold water. Use the soap. Every time.”

The words stung more than I wanted to admit.