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"Carly Bryant," said one of the women up at the panel. "You came here today to present your side of this case, which frankly, I don't feel you deserve. You sold your own child to pedophiles for thousands of dollars to fuel your own addiction that you took no responsibility for. Why would we release a sex trafficking addict back into the community?"

I opened my eyes when the woman stopped speaking, and forced myself to look at my mother. Now in her fifties, with slight wrinkles where they should be, but with a posture of someone who deserved confidence, she stood from her seat.

"I've been incarcerated for twenty years, Miss Tanger," she began, her voice raspier than I remembered. "And in that time, I got sober. I've been sober for fifteen years. I got my Bachelor's Degree then a Master's Degree in psychology, and I've acted as a peer worker for the past five years. What I did to my daughter…" She paused, appearing to swallow her words for a moment. "Was deplorable and evil. Addiction is evil. It takes over the mind and body, and doesn't leave room for the heart. I'm not blaming my acts on my addiction. I did this. I did that to her. It was all me and I know I hurt my daughter."

Rage boiled my blood when she called me her daughter, replacing the panic with something more primal. I wanted to tear her apart, scream in her face, and make her feel pain, hurt, and betrayal the way I had. I wanted to destroy her, eviscerate her, and I choked on a sob when I imagined myself tearing her hair out of its perfect ponytail.

"And how does you returning to society benefit the community? Because all I've heard is how prison has benefited you," said Miss Tanger, leaning on her elbows as she stared down my mother. "Your child, who you haven't seen in twenty years, from my understanding, is standing ten feet away from you and you haven't fallen to your knees and begged for her forgiveness. I don't see remorse here, Ms. Bryant. I see a selfish woman trying to sell her attributes to convince us to allow her to walk out of here and live her life. What about her?" The woman pointed at me. "What about her suffering?"

"I—" My mother stammered, gulping as she turned to look at me. "I wish I could take it all back," she said, tears streaming her cheeks. "I am selfish. I was. I'm sorry Rose Leigh. Mama's sorry." The way she said my name, in the way that I despised, sounded like Rosalie. I choked on my anger, and I made to clench my fists, but ended up squeezing Sam and Rebecca.

"You are not my mother," I spat, choking on it afterward as a sob caught me.

Someone banged a gavel or something, but Miss Tanger held up her hand. "Let her talk."

"You never cared about me or anyone. You weren't using heroin when you dumped me off at Grandma's for weeks or left me alone locked in the house when I was four. That lady is right. You're selfish. You'll do whatever you want in service of yourself only." The words poured from me in a tsunami I couldn't contain. Every word I ever wanted to say to her, to the woman who looked like me, fell from my lips. "Society doesn't need your flagrant, personality-disordered existence infesting its streets, Carly. Addiction isn't evil. You are evil."

"Rose Leigh, I—" She folded her hands against her chest as she cried.

"Don't call me that!" My voice echoed in the room as I let go of Sam and Rebecca. "Don't say my name. Don't look at me. You don't deserve to. You don't deserve anything except to rot inside these cold walls until you're old and foul and ripe for burial. You deserve nothing for what you did to me. You are not my mother," I said, on the rattling exhale that stole my breath.

The entire room fell silent, save for her cries.

I turned to see Rebecca's tear-stained face, and she offered me the softest smile.

"You are," I told her, choking on a sob now as every inch of me trembled with exhaustion. She caught me in a hug and I grabbed on to her, losing myself to a wave of tears that I hadn't let myself experience in front of her before. She squeezed me, and pulled Sam into the hug after. The two of them held me between them for a moment, before Rebecca urged us toward the back of the room.

No one stopped us and no voices followed. Rebecca's hold on me never faltered and we cried together in the hallway. Sam's tears weren't a beat behind as I held on to her with one hand and Rebecca with the other. Rebecca cupped my face, lost for words as tears swam in her deep brown eyes.

"Let's go home, sweet girl," she whispered and I nodded, closing my eyes when she kissed my forehead.

***

I woke up to Sam kneeling beside my bed while stroking my hair from my face. At Rebecca's house in my old bedroom, Sam appeared out of place amongst the childish white furniture, stuffed animals, and bookcases with hundreds of books. Over her shoulder, my worn out copies of Anne Of Green Gables took up space beside the Harry Potter series and Oliver Twist. I kept my books about orphans tucked close together. They all seemed like they needed each other.

"Hi, my sweet," crooned Sam, her expression drawn with fatigue.

"Hi, honey." I kissed her wrist and she smiled. "Can't sleep?"

She shook her head and I lifted the blankets for her to climb back in. "I'm worried about you," she said as I tucked the blankets around her. Her statement brought me pause as she'd never been so clear about her feelings before.

"I'm okay," I told her. "A little hungry though."

"Rebecca is really worried about you," she confessed while doting on me and tucking my hair behind my ear.

"Is she making you feel like you should be more worried than usual?" I asked and she nodded right away. "Rebecca's seen me at my worst, Sam. She's expecting that."

"What does your worst look like?"

"Anxious to a point where I can't move or speak much. She'd sit with me on the sofa for hours while I shook or cried and she'd read to me until I felt better," I told her, glancing over her shoulder again at the bookshelf. "When I started taking medication, that stopped happening as much. A few times a year, then not at all. But it was often before that. She's worried that I can't handle things without meds."

"Considering the situation the day brought, I have to admit I was expecting something like that, too." She cupped my cheek and stroked my lips with her thumb. "Are you really okay?"

I nodded, leaning into her touch. "I am."

Sam examined my expression, her eyes darting all over as if trying to scan for truth. "You had a nightmare before."

"I have them often regardless of today."