Chapter 35
Rose grew.
Ounce by ounce.
Breath by breath.
Her tiny body filled out.
Her cries got louder.
I loved every loud cry.
No one would ever shame my daughter for taking up space.
The house changed around us.
My father’s lake estate became less like a fortress and more like a home.
A nursery with yellow curtains.
A rocking chair by the window.
My mother’s portrait moved from storage to the hallway.
Not hidden anymore.
I stood before it often with Rose in my arms.
“I named her after you,” I whispered.
Sometimes I felt foolish.
Sometimes I felt heard.
Therapy began.
For me.
For my father.
Separately at first.
Then together.
The first joint session was brutal.
I told him I hated him for paying Martin.
He nodded.
I told him I hated that my mother named her killer and still disappeared beneath a lie.
He cried.
I told him I did not know whether I could forgive him.
He said, “I am not here to collect forgiveness. I am here to stop hiding.”
The therapist looked at me.
I cried then.
Not because everything was fixed.
Because for once, my father did not try to buy, command, or organize his way out of pain.
He stayed inside it.
Damon sent letters from jail.
Evelyn kept them.
I did not read them.
One day maybe.
Maybe never.
Lacey sent one too.
That one I read.
It said Selene made her do everything.
It said she envied me.
It said the robe was a mistake.
The robe.
Not the threat.
Not the kennel.
Not my baby.
I threw it away.
That night, Rose woke crying at 3 a.m.
I lifted her from the bassinet.
Her face scrunched.
Her fists waved.
She was furious at the world for being cold and confusing.
May you like
I kissed her forehead.
“Good,” I whispered. “Tell me everything.”
