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The child should have been hers.
Should have been theirs.
It wasn’t the child’s fault that the moment Katrina was in a stall the contents of her stomach were emptying into the toilet.
It wasn’t the child’s fault that her mind went to Lorenzo, curled up on her bathroom floor, sobbing.
It wasn’t the child’s fault that hot tears were spilling down Katrina’s cheeks now, that sobs were wracking her body, that she felt her resolve that she’d held onto for so long crumble.
Still, that child existed, the result of coercion and threats and rape.
The child’s mother had raped the boy she’d been so in love with that she was oblivious to the world around them.
“Are you okay?” she heard a small voice ask, and Katrina knew she wasn’t in the bathroom alone.
“I’m fine,” Katrina lied, sniffling. She opened the stall door to the little girl—Lorenzo’s little girl—who eyed her curiously.
“I don’t know you,” she said, and Katrina shook her head, her shaking limbs carrying her to the faucet.
“No, you don’t.” Somehow she’d found her voice, though it shook as well. She steadied herself on the sink and looked into the mirror. Her cheeks and nose were red, her eyes puffy and full of tears that threatened still.
“I’m Miranda,” the little girl said.
I know, Katrina thought.
“And I don’t know why they brought me here.”
“You don’t?” Katrina asked, and Miranda shook her head.
“He’s not even my real father. My mother told me so.”
Her mother, who had died months before, who should have rotted in prison instead.
“Did you French braid your hair yourself?” Her eyes were wide, curious, and Katrina could only nod. “Could you do mine? It’s really hot out there.”
Katrina’s lips quivered before she said, “Sure, I’d love to.”
The little girl smiled as she turned around and held up an elastic band. “I had it up earlier, but a ponytail is so little girlish.”
“You are a little girl,” Katrina said as her trembling fingers began to work her magic in this child’s hair, her heart screaming at her to run, but her head telling her it was fine, she could do this.
She was a little girl, so pure, so innocent.
It wasn’t her fault.
“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Miranda was saying, “but I wanted to talk to you. Is that okay?”
“Me? Why did you want to talk to me?”
“Because you’re sad.”
I’m devastated.
“What’s your name?”
“Trina,” she said as she finished the braid and used the elastic band to keep it in place. Miranda turned to her with a smile that should have warmed her heart. Instead, it left her longing to turn back the clock, stop her from coming to be at all.
Stop what her mother had done.
