Amira was fourteen when her mother remarried. Her stepfather, Carlo, seemed kind at first - polite smiles, warm dinners, promises of "a better life." Her mother believed he would bring stability, but Frida noticed small things that didn't feel right. The way his eyes lingered too long, the way he spoke to her when her mother wasn't around. At first, it was just words - comments that made her uncomfortable but were easy to brush aside. "You're growing up fast," he'd say, with a smile that wasn't fatherly.Amira didn't know how to explain it to her mother without sounding rude or ungrateful. She started locking her door at night, pretending she was studying late just to avoid being alone with him. Months turned into years, and the house that was supposed to be her home began to feel like a cage. Carlo controlled everything - what she wore, who she talked to, when she could go out. He said it was "for her own good." Her mother was often at work, exhausted, unable to see what was really happening. Amira stopped laughing. She stopped inviting friends over. She carried her silence like a secret - a heavy one that pressed on her chest every night. But one day at school, her teacher noticed the change. Amira had turned in a drawing - a picture of a girl behind bars, with a shadow standing over her. It was that drawing that made someone finally ask, "Are you okay?" It took weeks for her to speak. The words came out slowly, in pieces, through tears and shame that shouldn't have been hers. But when she finally told the truth, everything began to change. Her mother was heartbroken - not just at what happened, but at what she hadn't seen. Carlo was taken away. It didn't fix everything, but it was a start. Therapy came next, and it took time - a long time - for Amira to believe she wasn't to blame. Years later, when she was nineteen, Amira stood in front of a classroom of younger girls and told her story for the first time.