I buckled her into the seat as if she were made of glass that might shatter at any moment.
“Listen to me very carefully, Abigail. You did not do anything wrong today. What they did to you was completely unforgivable.”
She looked down at her hands, ashamed of her own body. “Are they going to stop loving me now?”
I felt something inside me breaking into pieces that could never be repaired. “The problem is not you, my love. It has never been you.”
When we arrived home, I laid her on the couch with a light blanket over her shoulders, prepared electrolytes, turned on her favorite cartoon, and sat beside her until she stopped shivering. Every few minutes, she reached out to touch my hand to make sure I was still sitting right there.
“Mommy, are you feeling angry with me?”
— Abigail
I kissed her small knuckles with tears in my eyes. “No, I am not angry with you. But I am furious with them. I promise you one thing today — they will never get the chance to put you in a situation like this ever again.”
She closed her eyes, completely exhausted from the trauma.
I stayed awake all night. Because that phone call had not come out of thin air. My parents had not suddenly transformed into cruel people that morning. They had always been this way — and I had learned how to justify their actions to keep the peace. I had learned to keep quiet, to pay for their mistakes, to provide endless patience just so my daughter could have the extended family I never felt I had growing up.
