He had seen that hunger in me.

He had recognized it as the softest part of the wall, the place to push.

And he had spent three years pushing — playing with the girls, helping Ben with his homework, being the steady second adult I had ached for, not because he cared for them but because their existence made me easier to take.

He had weaponized my love for my own children.

He had used the best thing in me against me.