The Girl at the Fence
by Tammy
When I was five, I moved into the white single-wide trailer with Pap.
Just a football field away sat the little pink house—where my mom, stepdad, sister, and brother.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t wanted.
Maybe it was just that there wasn’t enough space.
It happened gradually. Some time around the time my baby sister Brooke came along, but definitely before our little brother Dustin was born.
Technically, he was my great-great step-uncle.
But to me, he was just Pap.
And he was one of the greatest gifts of my childhood.
A widower and orphan himself, Pap had no children of his own. He’d married Grandma’s Aunt Sadie back when he worked in the coal mines. They raised our somewhat sickly Grandma Peggy.
Later, he raised one of my aunts, too.
Pap made me a hot breakfast every morning.
Brushed my hair and parted it just right.
Let me sleep in his bed when I was scared of the dark—so long as I could keep one finger touching his arm. Just to know he was still there.
He walked me to the bus stop every morning.
Cheered the loudest for every perfect attendance award, every straight-A certificate taped to the trailer wall.
We took slow walks around the pond, admiring the dogwood trees.
Ate sun-warmed tomatoes on the concrete steps, salt shaker in hand.
Sat with Mr. Fulford on the porch swing across the street while they talked about old-man things and I just listened—content, like a tiny old person in a child’s body.
I was safe.
I was loved.
And I knew he actually liked me.
He wanted to hang out with me.
Sometimes I got to sleep over in the little pink house—crammed in beside my siblings, thrilled to be tucked in with them.
Brooke would fall asleep with her chubby little hand tangled in my hair, afraid I’d disappear in the night.
But most days, I came home to Pap.
And I knew my place.
Still, there was another house—just next door to our family compound.
That house had a pool.
Sometimes even horses.
After school, my siblings and I would play in the big yard that backed up to Jennings State Forest—sun-drenched, sugar-sticky, barefoot and wild—until we’d drift toward the chain-link fence that separated our world from theirs.
We’d stand there, pretending not to notice the kids splashing and laughing on the other side.
Pretending we didn’t care.
But of course, we did.
We were always taught not to beg.
Not to invite ourselves.
To wait to be chosen.
So we’d just stand there—quiet, hopeful—while the grown-ups looked away.
Like they didn’t see us.
Or didn’t know what to do with kids like us—feral, barefoot, hungry for joy.
And eventually, that ache settled in.
The one that whispers:
Be sweet.
Be easy.
Don’t ask.
Don’t need.
That ache has a long half-life.
Even now, I sometimes catch myself in that same posture—waiting at fences.
Waiting to be invited in.
To be chosen.
Just yesterday, I gave a free massage to a woman who runs a horse ranch. I’ve been doing these pro bono massages as my little gift to the universe—and maybe for my own mental health, too.
At the end, she surprised me with an offer:
a free horseback riding lesson.
And I cried.
Because inside me, there’s still that sweaty little girl from the wrong side of the fence—spitting image of my daughter Stella Jo—who never got to ride.
And this wasn’t about money.
It wasn’t about access.
It was about being seen.
Invited.
Wanted.
And allowing myself to walk on through.
Eventually, I moved back in with my family. I stayed with them until I was sixteen.
Pap passed when I was about 11, from black lung, buried in Pennsylvania beside his beloved Sadie.
That season of my life—those four years with him—gave me something I carry still:
A sense of home.
And a knowing that even if I wasn’t always invited in…
I was always loved.
Liked, even.
And that’s the work. ❤️🩹
— Tammy
🧘🏻♀️🛠️💫
#StayGrounded #DoTheWork #KeepTheFaith
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Welcome to Good (Enough) Girl. I’m so glad you’re here.
And if you’ve ever almost let yourself break, burn out, or disappear…
just for the hope of hearing “Good girl”—
you’re not alone.
This space is for you, too. ✨
⸻
Pap with the grandkids. That’s me in red, on the far right.
