Chapter 2
The doctor examined Sarah upstairs.
Sprain.
Severe bruising.
No fracture.
I felt relief.
Then shame for feeling relieved by the phrase no fracture.
As though the standard for acceptable marriage had become whether bones stayed intact.
Emma sat beside Sarah holding her hand.
I stayed near the window.
“Mommy fell before,” Emma said.
Sarah froze.
I looked at her.
“When?”
Emma started counting on her fingers.
Then stopped.
“Lots.”
Children do not measure repetition well.
They measure familiarity.
That was worse.
Sarah whispered:
“Emma.”
Not angry.
Afraid.
I moved closer.
“She’s not in trouble.”
My daughter looked at me.
“I know.”
But she did not.
Not emotionally.
Someone had trained her to believe truth created punishment.
I crouched beside Emma.
“What happens after Mommy falls?”
“Grandma says Mommy clumsy.”
Of course.
“What does Daddy say?”
Emma looked at Sarah.
Then whispered:
“Say sorry.”
My jaw tightened.
“To him?”
She nodded.
Sarah began crying silently.
I did not touch her immediately.
She had spent too long being handled by people who claimed closeness gave them rights over her body.
So I asked.
“Can I sit beside you?”
She nodded.
I did.
“How long?”
This time she answered.
“About a year.”
One year.
I stared at her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She laughed weakly.
“Because you’d do exactly what you just did.”
I almost argued.
Then stopped.
Fair.
“You thought I’d make it worse.”
“Yes.”
“For who?”
She looked toward Emma.
There.
Not herself.
Her daughter.
“David said if you went after him, the Mercers would say I was unstable and keep Emma inside their house until things cooled down.”
My hands tightened.
“Could they?”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“But I believed they could.”
Fear does not require truth.
May you like
It only requires uncertainty.
And apparently the Mercer family had been feeding my daughter enough uncertainty to cage her without a lock.
