Page 108

Mom nods. For once, she looks her age, the lines around her mouth more profound, and the shadows under her eyes darker. “I tried. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me one day.”
I need to leave before I completely break down. I whirl around and?—
A thud. “It’s not your fault.”
Tears roll down my cheeks one by one. The words—it’s not your fault—echo through the room, through my bones, through every broken piece of me.
“You were just a child.” Mom’s voice cracks. “A baby. My baby.”
More tears fall. I can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even breathe properly, the weight of those words pinning me in place.
“I made you keep that secret.” Her voice breaks further. “I did that to you. Not you. Never you.”
The tears come faster. How many nights have I spent in front of the toilet, punishing myself for what happened? How many times have I looked at Anne and felt the guilt eat me alive?
It’s not your fault.
Four simple words. They should fix everything. They should heal the broken parts, should make the guilt disappear, should stop the constant need to purge.
But they don’t.
Because even as Mom’s broken voice washes over me, even as she finally gives me the absolution I’ve craved since I was eight years old, I know it’s too late.
The damage is done.
To Anne. To Clara. To Harry.
To me.
“Goodbye, mom.” My legs move on their own accord, carrying me toward the front door.
My mind is blank. Not able to form a coherent thought. Logic. Anything.
I open the door and get out, slamming it shut behind me.
BANG.
The sound freezes me mid-step, and I slowly turn back.
That wasn’t the door.
No. No, no, no.
I rush back, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get the key in the lock. “Come on, come on…” Finally, it clicks and I burst through. “Mom? MOM!”
Silence.
I race back to the living room. “Mom, where are you?”
The metallic scent hits me first.
And then I see her. Crumpled on the carpet. Dark liquid spreads around her head like some fucked-up halo.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t move.
I fall to my knees, the blood soaking into my jeans as I crawl toward her. “Mom, please…” I reach out to touch her but stop short. “Mom?”