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was a whore. I was so offended. I told her of course I wasn’t a
whore, and she stood there, leaning against the kitchen wall. I
remember exactly the way the brown wallpaper was peeling
away right above her left shoulder. She gave me this look that
told me I was no better than she was and told me that if I
wasn’t a whore already, I would be, because every woman
ends up that way.”
Fury built in Cassia’s gut until she felt cold with it and red
hot all over. It was like standing in the sun and getting a cold
blast of winter wind all at once. Her chest compressed and she
felt sick for the childhood, or lack of one, that Adalynn had.
For the little girl who understood she had to take care of her
mother from the youngest age. What would it have been like
not to have a parent to guide you, to keep you safe, to look
after you?
The sick feeling intensified as Cassia remembered her
mother’s platinum hair, her easy smile, her warm laugh that
could fill up a room. She had been the most beautiful woman
in the world, the best mother anyone could ever want. Cassia’s
father stepped in after, with stern rules and a silent house, with
private schools and men dressed all in black who took her
there and back and ensured her safety. She’d always had her
sisters, though. She supposed that maybe, in hindsight, she
hadn’t had much of a childhood either. She’d always thought
that being a child meant being quiet and obedient, that emotion
was something to be controlled, and that fathers were
supposed to be stern, imposing figures.
The silence in the room rang through Cassia’s head until her
whole body vibrated with it. “That’s not true,” she whispered.
She couldn’t stop herself. She reached over and set her hand
