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She shoves the phone at me, the picture zoomed into what is clearly the top of my head.
“Explain this,” she demands. “Everyone’s seen it now, so explain it. You have a baby that you haven't told my brother about,” she says and there's a glee in her malice that turns my blood into rivers of lava.
My father and Dean loosen their holds on me as they stare at the picture, too. I break free and whirl to face the rest of them.
My mother is clutching the arm of the sofa, my father's face is slack with shock, Milly is looking at me as if she's never seen me before and Addie is crying.
"Lilly." Harry's voice, the plea in it is like a dagger in my chest. I look at him. His face is drawn with lines of tension and disbelief. His question unspoken but clear.
I nod and his head drops, his shoulders hunch before he falls back into the chair beside him.
"How could you?" I look at Freya, so angry.
"How could I?" She demands haughtily. "I'm not the one lying," she glances around the room, "apparently to everyone about my child."
My father walks to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Lilly, What does that mean? How?"
He reaches for the phone and Freya, after a moment's hesitation, drops it in his hand. He stares at it. The picture is of me in my hospital gown, in the delivery bed, my baby at my breast. My face obscured but there's no question that it's me. My hand, the same one cradling that sweet, downy, delicate head in the picture aches at the memory. "I had a baby. Four years ago. That picture is the only one I have of her.” The phantom pain of my milk drying up tugs deep in my breast and I close my eyes.
“It was taken a few hours before the family who adopted came to get her." My voice breaks, my heart breaks, my entire soul cracks. And I let the tears flow. Who cares if they see my cry, now? They know everything.
“Lilly. How? Why didn't you tell us? How can this be?" This from my mother, her tone rife with accusation and hurt.
"Why should have I told you?" I whisper, directing it not only at her, but at all of the people watching me.
"What do you mean? You had a baby!" She shouts hysterically, pushing frantic hands through her hair.
"Yes, I did. All by myself and it is None. Of. Your. Business." I say holding my head as high as I can. It’s a Herculean effort, my anger, defeat and fear have turned every bone in my body to jelly. I’m struggling to keep myself upright. This is a nightmare of proportions to large to measure.
I steady myself with a deep breath and continue, "I was raped.” My sob catches me by surprise, but I reign my emotion in again before I continue. “You were all downstairs watching a movie. I could hear you laughing.” My sisters both gasp and cover their mouths at the same time. I just glance at them and then look back at the floor.
“The next morning, you cooked breakfast for him and didn't notice that your daughter was barely able to speak. You were there and I was falling apart.” My hand comes to the base of my throat, my sobs are harder to restrain now. “Not one of you looked at me long enough to notice.” My brain is confused and goes into autopilot. But my words carry my resentment and disappointment clearly, “So, forgive me for not trusting you to help me with the hardest moment of my life."
A horrible, dark, and heavy silence descends on the room. I am feeling so many things at once that I can’t express myself, but it’s like they’re leeching out of me and filling the room, choking us everyone.
Harry's parents stand up. "We're going to give you all some privacy,” his mother says. As she walks past me, she grabs my hands and gives it a quick hard squeeze. I’m surprised but by the time I recover, she’s already moved on. She grabs Freya by the arm and pushes her out of the room ahead of her.
"Lilly, I don't understand. Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asks, anguished and torn. I can see he wants to come to me. But I know he won't. My composure crumbles and I let my tears flow.
"I was going to. Harry. I was. I promise,” I plead with him to believe me. I'm crying freely now, my nose running, my tears unrestrained.
I want to go to him, to explain, but I’m afraid it’s too late for that.
"Lillian,” My sister, Milly’s soft voice beckons me. I turn toward her and she holds her arms open for me.
I go to her, desperate for the refuge, for the comfort. I wrap my arms around her waist, bury my face in her shoulder and weep.
"Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. It was Paul Jermyn, wasn't it?" She asks, her tone pacifying.
I nod and nestle into her.
"You only came home after he died. I realize it now. It makes sense." She says, her own voice strained.
"Lilly, please, tell me why you didn't let us help you?" My mother pleads from her chair. And something about the underlying disappointment in her voice seizes my grief and twists it into bitter anger.
"How could you have helped me? How could I tell you that I let that man rape me? The man we all respected so much? How? What would you have said? He said you wouldn’t believe me and I believed him.”
“But why, Lilly? Why?” My mother cries, sounding heart broken and confused – her voice high, frantic and panicked.
