I did not do that to him. He did it to himself, the moment he decided a baby was a bl*odline question instead of a child.
Here is the part that healed me, though.
Priscilla.
I could have cut her off with the rest of them. She’d kept an enormous secret, and that secret had, in its way, made Carson who he was. But Priscilla was also the only Rutherford who ever stood up in that hospital room and said stop. The only one who wept for what was being done to me. The only one who, in the end, told the truth to save me from being called a liar, knowing it would cost her everything.
Priscilla and I are close now. Closer than I ever was with my own distant mother. She is at my house every week, and she holds Iris like she is the most precious thing in the world, which to both of us, she is. Two women who were each almost destroyed by the Rutherford obsession with bl*od — and who found, in each other, the family that obsession never gave either of us.
