Sable Monroe

 

When we moved to Glen Oaks, it looked like we had finally made it.

 

The apartment was nice. Actually nice.

 

Not “for show” nice—livable nice.

 

It had three bedrooms, a real living room, and a small kitchen that felt complete in a way our previous homes never did. For the first time since living in America with my mother, we had a washer, dryer, and dishwasher inside the apartment.

 

That alone felt like an upgrade in life.

 

My bedroom had soft, rosy pink walls. Not that harsh Pepto-Bismol pink—something softer. You could tell a little girl had lived there before me.

 

And for once, I didn’t mind it.

 

Outside, there was greenery. Condos lined up in quiet order. Everything about it suggested stability.

 

On paper, it looked like we had finally landed somewhere safe.

 

But I already knew how this was going to end.

 

Because I knew him.

 

And men like him don’t change just because the walls are prettier.

 

I knew my stepfather would eventually act a fool, and the same cycle would follow us there:

 

Police. Chaos. Silence. Reset. Repeat.

 

There was a Jewish lady upstairs. She was kind. I remember liking her immediately. People like her always made me feel like there was another version of life that existed…

 

One I wasn’t quite inside of.

 

When I found out I’d be going to high school in Queens Village, I actually felt hopeful.

 

It wasn’t a bad school. It was close too—about eight blocks.

 

I could have walked.

 

But there was one problem.

 

The school was near Creedmoor.

 

An actual psychiatric hospital.

 

We used to call the patients “Creedmorians.” It wasn’t right, but we were kids. And I was scared.

 

So instead of walking, I took the bus most days.

 

Fear will reroute you, even when the distance is short.

 

At school, things felt… normal. At least on the surface.

 

I was tall, slim, with a little curve. And I found my people.

 

Three of us:

Me (Jamaican)

Faye (Jamaican)

Ava (Haitian)

 

We were the tall girls. The ones people looked at twice.

 

Faye was runway.

I was more Victoria’s Secret—boobs and butt.

Ava could go either way.

 

She was already signed to an agency.

 

I was trying to get signed too.

 

But there was always that voice in the back of my head:

 

You don’t have your green card.

 

So I could dream… but only halfway.

 

That’s also where I met my children’s father.

 

I remember the first time I saw him. I thought he was the most gorgeous guy I had ever seen.

 

But he was shy. Friendly, but shy.

 

We became friends.

 

We rode the bus together. Walked together. Talked.

 

But neither of us made a move.

 

And honestly, I wasn’t even sure if he liked girls like me.

 

And maybe he wasn’t sure either.

 

So we stayed in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

 

I dated other people too.

 

One of them stood out.

 

I met him at a train station after a failed modeling casting call.

 

He was Dominican. Handsome. Confident.

 

We exchanged numbers.

 

At first, I thought he was maybe two years older than me.

 

He wasn’t.

 

He was about 23. I was around 16.

 

That gap matters when you’re that young… but at the time, I didn’t fully process it.

 

We dated for a few months.

 

I’d sometimes skip school just to spend time with him.

 

He lived in Brooklyn with roommates. He wasn’t rich. He worked security while trying to build a modeling career.

 

But he had something I didn’t have at home:

 

Peace.

 

He would cook for me.

 

That stayed with me.

 

No man had ever done that for me before.

 

Even then, I knew it wasn’t going to last.

 

Some relationships aren’t built to continue.

They’re built to give you a moment of relief.

 

Around that same time, my mother decided to bring my grandmother to the U.S.

 

I was conflicted.

 

I missed my grandmother deeply—I hadn’t seen her in four years.

 

But I was also scared.

 

Because I knew what my home was like.

 

My mother told me that if my grandmother was there, my stepfather wouldn’t act up.

 

I wanted to believe that.

 

So I agreed.

 

I remember the day she arrived.

 

I had been out with that older guy and rushed home so we could go to the airport together.

 

And when I saw her…

 

I was happy.

 

Relieved.

 

Grounded.

 

For a moment, it felt like something good had entered my life again.

 

But I knew something else too.

 

The apartment looked like stability.

 

But I had lived long enough to know—

 

looks don’t hold anything together.

 

If you’ve ever lived somewhere that looked safe but wasn’t, you already understand.