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It was easier for him to believe that I fell down the stairs, that I cut myself shaving, that the kitchen knife just happened to slip.

Much less convenient to face the fact that my husband was a beast.

“I know you did it all for me.”

“I did do it for you,” I reply with a nod. “But in the end, I couldn’t anymore, Pa. That’s why I was planning on leaving. I had to fight for myself.”

My father looks down. “I was angry at first when I heard. And then I realized what you were running from,” he says. “You were running from me as much as you were running from him.”

It’s shockingly honest. More perceptive than anything else I’ve ever heard him say.

And I don’t deny it.

My natural instinct is to step in and try and absolve him of blame. But this time, I stop myself.

It’s time to face harsh truths, even if they hurt. I’ve been hiding behind denial too long.

He has, too.

“I love you, Pa,” I tell him fervently. “I’ve always loved you. But I’ve been alone all these years. Even before Tristan entered my life, I was alone. You left me when Mama did.”

Pa closes his eyes and a tear slips free. “Your mother… She was the best part of me.”

“And her death broke your heart,” I say. “I know, Pa. But you didn’t fight for the part of her she left behind. You never fought for me.”

He looks at me through tear-filled eyes and nods. He accepts the blame I’m laying at his feet, instead of batting it away like he used to.

It makes me feel lighter, like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

I’ve never had this before. The grace of simple fucking acknowledgement.

It means everything.

“I have so much to atone for, Saoirse,” he whispers. “For all the pain and suffering you went through. That’s on me.”

I sigh. “It’s not, Pa. Even if you had objected, Tristan wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. He’s wanted me for a long time. Ever since I was a teenager.”

A horrified look flits across his face, and he turns a nasty shade of pink.

“Did… did he touch you… when you were a teenager? Before you married him?”

I don’t understand why people assume rape is somehow easier to bear when you’re older, or within the confines of marriage. Rape is rape, no matter what form it takes.

“No, Pa. He never did that.”

He releases a breath. I can see that he’s relieved. I decide to let him have that little kernel of peace.

He knows I’ve suffered. He doesn’t need to know the precise details of what that suffering entailed.

All those nights I was held down and gagged while Tristan used my body like it was his to use, destroy, degrade.

All those nights I cried myself to sleep because I knew I would have to wake up and pleasure a man I hated.

All those nights I dreamed about another man—a laughing guardian angel with blond curls and clear blue eyes.

There’s a knock on the door. Pa stiffens.

I give him a reassuring pat and stand up. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You rest. I’ll go see who it is.”


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