“Then how come you always go to that house?” She looked back down the road, and I knew she meant Haizley’s house. I wondered how often she’d seen me walking by.
“Haizley is my therapist,” I answered honestly.
“You go to therapy?” When I nodded, she added, “I had to go to therapy,” before looking away.
“Because of what your dad did?” I asked, my voice cracking as I tried to control the anger building inside me. I wasn’t sure I could handle it if she told me what he’d done, but Haizley was right. If I wanted to know, I had to hear it from her.
Frankie nodded, and everything inside me ached to ask the question I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to. Instead, she asked one of her own.
“Why do you go?”
“Well, I did some things I’m not proud of, and I’m trying to learn how to forgive myself.”
“Were they bad things?”
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump that formed in my throat.
“Did you hurt someone?”
I pulled my feet up to the next step and leaned forward, placing my arms on my thighs. I held my hands together tightly, questioning how much I should tell her.
“I did. Someone I shouldn’t have hurt.”
Please don’t ask me who!
“Why?” Her questions were so innocent; she had no idea how much my heart broke having this conversation with her. Haizley’s words came back through my mind as I thought about how to answer Frankie.
“I was angry and hurt,” I said. “And I didn’t know how to regulate my emotions so I lashed out.”
Frankie nodded slowly, processing. “Mom says we’re supposed to talk about our feelings. Not keep them all bottled upuntil there’s no room left. She said that’s when they explode and we hurt people.”
“Your mom’s smart.” I held her gaze, making sure she understood the weight of what I was telling her. This wasn’t about seeking her forgiveness or approval. This was about her knowing exactly who I was and what I was capable of.
“Is that what you did?” she asked, her eyes wide.
“Yeah, I let it build until I couldn’t control it anymore.” I sighed and ran my hands over my face. “My dad hurt me too. And my mom,” I told her. “She wasn’t strong like your mom. She didn’t get us away.”
Frankie was quiet while I spoke. I wanted so desperately for her to understand what I’d done. More so, I wanted her to forgive me.
“My dad used to drink a lot. And when he drank, he would get angry.”
“Do you drink?” she asked shyly.
“I do; I drink beer. But I don’t get drunk. I only have one or two after work sometimes. My dad drank bourbon, and he drank it every night. And then he would hit my mom. When I got a little older, I tried to stop him, and he started hitting me too. When I turned eighteen, I left home. I begged my mom to come with me, but she wouldn’t leave. She picked him over me, just like she always did.”
“What did you do?”
I took a deep breath and looked over my shoulder. Kat would probably tear me a new asshole if she knew I was telling Frankie all this. But I wanted her to know me.
“I left, but I stayed close. I checked in on my mom while my dad was at work, brought her extra groceries for a while until she begged me to stop.”
“Why would she do that?”
I smiled at my daughter. She was so beautiful and innocent. She looked so much like my mother. Her grandmother.
“My dad got angry because he thought she was disrespecting him by accepting help from me. Thought she was betraying him and everything he had done for her. Which was the bare minimum.”
Frankie fidgeted beside me, and I wanted to know what I had said that affected her. When she stayed quiet and looked at me, I knew she wanted me to continue.
