My face flamed with dreadful shame. “I-I wet myself. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” I whispered shakily.
“Nothing to be upset about, honey. It’s in your chart that you’ve been struggling with some nighttime issues. It’s okay,” she tried to assure me.
I shook my head, tears slipping free. “But I made a mess.Again.”
She glanced at the wet spot on the bed, then back at me, her expression kind and understanding. “Bodies do weird things when they’re under a lot of stress. This happens more often than you think.”
I swallowed, my chest aching. “You’re not mad?”
She smiled, small and real. “No, not even a little.” I sniffled as she kept speaking. “Now, why don’t we get you cleaned up, yeah? I’ll help you if you want, or I can give you privacy. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I hesitated, but then nodded, too exhausted to argue. My legs shook when I swung them over the side of the bed, the shame weighing me down with every movement. The woman moved carefully, draping a towel around my shoulders, guiding me without rushing.
The bathroom was bright as usual, the light almost too much. The shower stall was small and open. It was a room I’d gotten too familiar with over the past few days.
“Do you need help with undressing?” she asked, reaching into the stall to turn the water on.
When she looked back at me, I meekly shook my head and stood there with my arms wrapped around myself, staring at the floor.
She nodded, then handed me soap and a clean towel. “Just leave the dirties in the linen bin, okay? I’ll be right outside,” she said. “Take your time.”
The bathroom door closed softly behind her.
Under the spray of warm water, I finally let myself cry. Quiet, shaking sobs that echoed too loudly in the tiny space. I scrubbed at my skin like I could wash the shame away, like if I just tried hard enough, I could be clean again—inside and out.
When I was done, wrapped in the towel and sniffling, she was there again, offering me a fresh gown, clean underwear, and socks, without comment. Back in the room, the bed had been remade—new sheets, crisp and white, with no sign of what had happened.
Like my mess had never existed.
“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
She squeezed my shoulder gently. “It’s no problem, sweetheart. You ring the call button if you need anything, okay? The floor nurse will be making her rounds soon, too.”
After she left, the room felt too quiet.
I climbed back into bed and curled on my side, fingers clutching the edge of the thin blanket. My chest felt heavy with a sadness so deep that it felt like it was drowning me from the inside out.
I pressed my face into the pillow, breathing in the sterile scent, and cried silently.
I cried and cried and cried until my ribs hurt, and my eyes felt swollen, until the tears slowed into quiet hiccups I couldn’t quite stop. The pillow was damp beneath my cheek, cold and so very unfamiliar.
Everything felt wrong.
It felt as if my soul itself were aching.
Father was gone. They had said he was in jail, but I still didn’t really understand what that meant, even with their explanations. Jail sounded like another place like this—white walls, locked doors, people watching you all the time. MaybeFather was in a bed like mine. Maybe he was scared, too. Maybe he was waiting for someone to come explain things to him in a way he could understand, and no one was.
The thought made my heart throb with pain.
If Father was hurting… wasn’t that my fault?
They’d told me the compound had been completely cleared out—words I didn’t know how to even begin to picture. I tried to imagine the chapel empty, the benches bare, the hymns stopped halfway through a verse. I tried to imagine the others scattered somewhere out in the world like seeds thrown too hard.
Did they miss me?
Did they hate me?
Did they think I’d betrayed them the way Father said I had?
