But I know this much, and I know it all the way down.

My son was born with a mark on his back, and that mark did not expose my betrayal — it surfaced the buried lies of the men who came before him.

It proved that my husband trusted his own insecurity over my voice.

And it forced me, at thirty-six, to stop breaking myself into smaller and smaller pieces to keep a peace that had only ever cost me and never him.

A mother can forgive a great many things.

But she must never teach her children — least of all her four watching daughters — that love means staying with someone who refuses to believe in her worth.

Whatever I decide about Matthias, I decided that.

My children will grow up knowing their mother’s worth was never up for a vote.

If nothing else comes of any of it, that will have been enough.

THE END.