I was born in the United States and was named Elena by Maria and Jacobo my parents , but my first memories weren't American. As a baby, I was taken to Mexico - my parents had no legal place in this country, so they returned to where they came from. I didn't understand borders or papers, just that home changed before I could remember it.

When I was five, we came back. But things weren't the same. My mother had remarried. Federico was not a kind man - he was a man with anger in his fists and poison in his mouth. He hurt us in every way a person could hurt another. I was just seven when the worst happened. He took something from me I never got back. I never told anyone, not even my mother. But once - I thought she saw. I thought she walked in, saw, and walked back out in silence. That silence became louder than any scream.

It all ended one night. He was beating my mother again, and this time, my older brother Victor had enough. He called the police. They took him, and he was deported back to Mexico. But the damage stayed. My mother was left alone with four daughters Victoria Pamela Sandra and one son victor annd I - and a mountain of pain she never asked for.

She worked constantly, doing what she could. I was just a girl - already forced to know too much. And at nine, it happened again. Another family member. Another betrayal. This time, at ten years old, I told the police. I didn't see my uncle again for years.

That was the beginning of my strength.