There is a particular kind of loneliness that does not have a name yet. It is the loneliness of a child who was never alone, but was never truly seen. The parent was there, technically. The meals were made. The clothes were washed. Maybe there were even birthday cakes and Christmas mornings and the occasional “I love you” said out loud in front of people. But underneath all of that, the child knew something was off in the way only children know things: in the body, before the
