My graduation day was supposed to be the day I would finally feel seen. The stadium glistened in the May sunlight, a blurred patch of navy blue robes and proud families. When my name rang out—”Camila Elaine Reed, MSc in Data Analytics”—I instinctively looked up, searching the front rows. The “Reserved for Family” section stared back at me, empty and metallic under the light.

I forced a smile for the photo, holding my diploma a little too tightly. Around me, laughter blossomed like confetti. I was left alone with the family of a stranger taking pictures, my smile shrinking as the camera clicked.

The truth is, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My parents had also skipped my graduation from college. There was always some reason, always a smaller, brighter priority. I had spent my teenage years trying to earn love like it were a scholarship, working two jobs, sending money home, saying yes to every request.

When I was 16, I wore a brown Starbucks apron at dawn. Mom used to message me: “Thank you, honey. Avery needs piano lessons.” Or, “You have a field trip, just a little extra.” It is ok. The first time he said, “You’re our pride,” I believed him. I thought love sounded like appreciation. Now I know it sounded like an obligation.

When I entered graduate school, I told myself that this degree would change everything. That if I got enough of it, maybe she’d see me not as the backup plan, not as the constant check disguised as a daughter, but as her equal.

Three days after the ceremony, when the cap and gown were still hanging by the door, that message appeared on my phone: Do I need two thousand one hundred for your sister’s sweet 16? No congratulations, no curiosity about how it went, just numbers, a deadline, in that same silent expectation.

I looked at the message for a long time. And that was the moment when something inside me—something small, tired, and long ignored—finally stood up.

I opened my banking app, saw my savings, barely 3,000, and felt something harden in me. I typed “1 dollar,” added a note: “Congratulations,” and hit send. For a long minute, I just sat there, with the word “Sent” flashing on the screen.

Then I opened the drawer by the front door, pulled out the spare key my mom insisted on keeping for emergencies, and threw it in the trash. That night, I called a locksmith. The new lock clicked into place, solid and definitive. It was the first boundary I had built in my life.

The next day, sunlight filled my small apartment. I made coffee and, for the first time, I did not flinch at the silence. It was mine. No one could enter. No one could ask for anything. Peace had a sound. It was this one, until they started knocking on the door. Firm, rhythmic, persistent.

I froze. She was not my landlady; She always called first. When I looked through the peephole, two uniforms filled the hallway. “Denver police,” said one, calm and professional. “Miss Reed?” I opened the door, my heart racing. “Yes.”

The officers exchanged a quick glance before the taller one spoke.

“We received a report of possible theft at this address,” he said, leafing through a notebook. A Mrs. Reed testified that you denied her access to her property and that you may be withholding items that belong to her.

I went blank.

“Robbery?” I managed to say. This is my apartment. I paid for everything here.

The second, younger officer bowed slightly, as if assessing not only my words, but my tiredness.

“Can we come in?” he asked.

I nodded. They both walked in, taking a quick and professional look at the small but tidy space. My boxes with books, my framed diploma still wrapped in plastic, my cheap coffee maker. Everything she had built alone.

The tall officer walked over to the window, raising an eyebrow.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?” I asked.

He pointed down toward the parking lot. A red wine minivan was parked awkwardly, with the side door open. Inside, I could make out transparent bags… and a figure moving.

The young officer turned to me.

“Miss Reed… Your mother stated that you came out this morning upset, saying that you were going to “disappear.” He also said that he left a worrying note.

“That’s not true,” I replied, feeling a strange tingling in the back of my neck. I didn’t leave any notes.

The policemen exchanged another look. Something in his expressions changed. They no longer seemed to be looking for a suspect, but to protect her from something I didn’t yet understand.

“Camila?” said the young man in a different tone. Your mother also mentioned that she was worried that you… was “losing my memory”.

They gave me a role. A crumpled sheet, supposedly found in my mother’s house.

I read it.

The handwriting was incredibly similar to mine.

“I can’t take it anymore. I’m leaving. I don’t want to be here when they come back. Sorry.”

I froze.

“I didn’t write this. I haven’t been to his house in weeks. That’s it… falsified.

The tall officer held his gaze over me for a long moment, as if studying every blink, every little tremor in my hands.

“Miss Reed,” he said at last. I need you to come with us for a moment. There are some discrepancies in the report. Better to rinse them in the season.

And then, the knock on the door sounded again.

But this time, it wasn’t the uniform ringing of the knuckles.

It was a dull, desperate blow.

The three of us turned around at the same time.

“Who…?” I began.

The young man opened the door cautiously.

Avery was there. My sister. Pallor. Trembling. Her eyes, red from crying.

“Camilla,” he sobbed. You have to come. Mum… Mom is saying very strange things. He says you never moved here. That this,” he pointed to the entire apartment with a trembling hand, “is his. That you… that you don’t exist.

The world bowed down to me.

“What?” I whispered.

“He says you’re a fabrication,” Avery continued, frantic. That he only had one daughter. That I’m the only one. That you are… a phase. A copy. Something that “went away years ago”.

The policemen were speechless.

Me too.

Avery searched for my hand in desperation… but her gaze twisted as soon as I touched her, as if a shiver ran through her.

“Camila,” he whispered. ¿Why… Why are you so cold?

The officers took a step back.

I did two forward without feeling my legs. My body was moving, yes, but the ground no longer responded the same under my feet. As if it wasn’t entirely mine.

“Avery,” I said, barely audible, “of course I exist. I am here.

The light in the apartment flickered.

Only once.

But enough for the cops to put their hands on their belts.

And then the tall officer muttered something that pierced me deeper than any absence, any abandonment.

“Miss Reed… Our body cameras aren’t capturing your face.

Not even my face.

Ni mi silueta.

Or anything.

Alone… an empty space.

Behind me, slowly, the diploma still wrapped in plastic fell to the ground under its own weight.

And it sounded like a thud in an apartment where, suddenly, I realized that perhaps the one thing I had never had… It was a real place to call me.