For twelve years, I’d wondered whether Rebecca had stopped loving me.
Now I knew she had left because she couldn’t face what she’d done.
“I should have told you,” she whispered. “I was ashamed. I thought disappearing would hurt less than watching you hate me.”
I was angry.
Of course I was.
But upstairs was a twelve-year-old girl fighting for her future.
And suddenly, the past didn’t seem as powerful as it had an hour earlier.
“You could have told me,” I said.
“I know.”
“What if I want to stay?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“Then we have a lot to talk about.”
Six months later, Sophie was doing better.
Her treatment was working.
Rebecca had started playing guitar again.
She wore lipstick.
She met friends for coffee.
And sometimes, when Sophie was having a good day, the three of us went out together.
One Saturday afternoon, I found Sophie on the couch while Rebecca played guitar in the kitchen.
