She would cry, apologize, twist it, and call it a misunderstanding.
And a part of me, the tired part, might even let her, because starting over alone felt impossible.
No. I knew exactly how women like Jenna survived.
They counted on your exhaustion. They counted on you being too overwhelmed to fight back.
She needed to expose herself.
With her own voice. In her own words. In front of everyone who had ever believed her.
I thought of Lily’s wobbling voice on the other side of that wall, and the cold command not to cry.
And I stopped being tired.
PART 2
To understand what I did next, you have to understand my mother.
Laura Hartley was the most careful woman I ever knew.
She raised three kids on a nurse’s salary and never once let us feel the weight of it.
She clipped coupons, worked double shifts, and still somehow made every birthday feel like a holiday.
