Everyone has their secrets. Whether it’s that vase you once broke at your grandmother's house and blamed on the cat, or the late-night calls you took in hushed tones, fearing anyone might overhear. Secrets have a way of embedding themselves deep within us, woven into the fabric of our very being. Some secrets are small, fleeting, like the whispered confessions of a child. But others... others are heavier, like stones lodged in the heart, weighing us down with the burden of their existence.

Normally, I'd introduce myself, but this story started before I even came to be—all the way in Greece with my mother, Adara Astrinos, in the 1980s. More specifically, in 1981.

Thirteen-year-old Adara had just lost her parents. She and her sisters, Areti and Sophoneia, were handed over to their aunt.

Their aunt, Argyros, was a stern woman, rigid in her ways, with a heart that seemed more stone than flesh. She lived alone in a sprawling, ancient villa perched on a hill overlooking the Aegean Sea—a place as cold and unforgiving as she was. The sisters, still reeling from the loss of their parents, found little comfort in her austere home. The walls of the villa were lined with old, faded portraits of ancestors long gone, their eyes seeming to follow the girls as they moved through the halls.

Argyros was the type of woman who shouldn’t be allowed around children. She and Areti, the ten-year-old, often engaged in a silent battle of wills. Areti, with her fiery spirit and stubborn nature, was not one to back down easily, even in the face of her aunt's cold demeanor. Every time Argyros tried to impose her strict rules, Areti pushed back—sometimes with a defiant glare, other times with words that earned her harsh reprimands. Reprimands that Adara often shielded her from.

But it was Sophoneia, just six years old, who bore the brunt of Argyros's cruelty. After losing her parents, Sophoneia's behavior became increasingly unusual—she spoke less, often retreated into her own world, and had moments where she would simply stare out at the sea for hours, lost in thoughts too deep for a child her age. Argyros, lacking any understanding or compassion, saw this as something to be corrected, and her punishments were as unusual as they were cruel. She would force Sophoneia to sit alone in cold, dark rooms or deny her meals until she “learned to behave.”

Each time, it was Adara who stepped in, shielding her youngest sister from their aunt's wrath as best she could. Adara's heart broke a little more with each punishment, but she knew she had to be strong—for Areti, for Sophoneia, and for the memory of their parents. She took on the role of protector, often sneaking food to Sophoneia when she was punished or staying up late into the night to comfort her when nightmares plagued her sleep.

And that, my friends, is where our first dark secret comes in—that autumn night in December of 1984, when Areti and Argyros's argument grew so heated that it led the younger girl to make a decision. A decision that her older sister would have to change their lives forever just to protect.

That night, the villa was cloaked in darkness, the cold wind from the Aegean Sea howling through the cracks in the old walls. The air inside was thick with tension, a storm brewing not outside but within. It began as it always did, with Argyros scolding Areti for some perceived slight, her voice sharp and unforgiving. But this time, something snapped in Areti. The anger that had been simmering within her for years finally boiled over. She shouted back, words she had never dared to speak aloud now spilling from her in a torrent of rage.

Argyros, taken aback by the intensity of Areti’s defiance, struck out—first with words, then with a slap across the face that echoed through the cold, empty halls. Areti didn’t flinch. Instead, she stared at her aunt with a fury that burned brighter than the pain on her cheek.

“You’re nothing but a cruel old woman!” Areti shouted. “You don’t care about us! You never did!”

What happened next was a blur. In the heat of the moment, driven by a need to finally be free of Argyros’s tyranny, Areti pushed her aunt, hard. Argyros stumbled backward, her foot catching on the edge of the rug. There was a sickening thud as she fell, her head striking the corner of a marble table. The room fell silent, the only sound the howling wind outside.

Argyros lay still, her eyes wide open but unseeing.

Areti stood frozen, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as the realization of what she had done began to sink in.

Adara, who had been trying to comfort Sophoneia in the next room, rushed in when she heard the commotion. The sight that greeted her would haunt her for the rest of her life—Areti, pale as a ghost, standing over their fallen aunt, who lay in a pool of blood that was slowly spreading across the cold stone floor.

Without a word, Adara knew what she had to do. The only thought in her mind was to protect her sisters, especially Areti, who was now trembling with shock and fear.

“We need to leave,” Adara whispered, her voice firm despite the terror gripping her heart. “Now.”

There was no time to mourn, no time to think. Adara quickly gathered a few belongings, wrapped Sophoneia in a warm blanket, and took Areti by the hand. Together, they fled into the night, leaving the villa—and the life they had known—behind.