“I thought that if I hid my name and my money and my whole self, I’d find out who really cared for me.
Instead I gave away my own voice.
And the moment a woman gives up her voice, the people who enjoy controlling others will always come back for a little more.”
“Do you regret the six years?” she asked.
I looked out to where Poppy was in the garden with my father, chasing him across the grass, showing off the gap in her smile without a trace of fear.
“I only regret that I didn’t leave sooner,” I said.
“But I won’t let the pain be the only thing those years left behind.”
In the end, Poppy and I made our home in a bright house in Pasadena, with a courtyard full of flowers and a big, forgiving kitchen where a child could make any mess she liked.
One afternoon we were making hot chocolate, and she knocked over her cup, and I watched her go rigid — watched her look up at me and flinch, bracing for the shout that used to come.
I picked up a cloth and wiped it away, and I smiled at her.