When I was 8 or 9, my grandma’s gold watch went missing.

My uncle, aunt, and mom interrogated me for hours, making me cry and pressuring me to confess.

I kept saying I didn’t know where it was, but they didn’t believe me.

Eventually, I lied, saying I gave it to my classmate just to end the interrogation.

My uncle drove to my friend’s house, but they didn’t know anything.

The next day, I was filled with anger and shame.

A week later, my grandma found the watch, but no one apologized.

That’s when I stopped trusting my family.

When I was eight or nine, something happened that would change the way I viewed my family forever.

It all started when my grandma’s gold watch went missing.

The watch wasn’t just any piece of jewelry—it was a family heirloom, passed down through generations.

My grandma wore it every day, and it gleamed with sentimental value, so when it vanished, everyone went into a panic. But no one panicked more than my uncle, aunt, and mom.

I was the youngest, and of course, they assumed that I must have been the one to take it. I hadn’t even known where the watch was kept, but they were certain I did. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but I soon found myself caught in a web of accusations and interrogation.

It started with a question. “Do you know where Grandma’s watch is?” My mom’s voice was calm at first, but I could hear the edge of suspicion creeping in.

“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. I hadn’t touched it.

That wasn’t enough for them. They pressed me harder, their voices growing louder. “You’re lying!” My uncle yelled, his eyes burning with distrust. “Where did you hide it?”

“I didn’t hide it!” I cried. “I swear, I don’t know where it is!”

The hours seemed to stretch on forever. They didn’t let me leave the room, demanding that I confess. My mom, usually the kind one, was now furious. “Tell us where it is. Now!” she shouted. I felt my chest tighten with panic.