I would be lying if I said I didn’t.

There were nights, in the worst of it, when some furious voice in me wanted to make Solomon feel a fraction of what he’d made me feel, and the surest way to do that would have been through Theo — to limit the time, to poison the well, to let my son absorb, drop by drop, the truth about what his father had done.

It would have been easy.

Children believe their mothers.