Page 349 of Mad Girl

“I just can’t, honey.”

“How did she abandon me?”

The horrible crib story—I wanted him to confirm it. This one thing, I wanted him to tell me on his own—without any indication I already knew. Of all the betrayals and lies and half-truths, this lie of omission had hurt me the most. I wanted to know what had really happened. Why he’d walked away. Why he felt personally responsible.

“She left,” he said simply.

“How? When?”

“When you were a baby. Right after your first birthday. I came home one day and she was gone.”

“Where was I?”

Nic shrugged, like the answer should’ve been obvious. “With the nanny.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.”

I stared him down. “So you weren’t called back from New York when a neighbor called the police? Because I was left in my crib to scream and cry? To claw myself for over twenty-four hours?”

The color drained from Nic’s face. “Who told you that?”

“Is it true?”

His eyes flashed. “Who told you?”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you hide something so huge? Something that might help me understand? The panic attack on Casey’s birthday? Why I clawed myself? Why I need pain to feel better?”

Nic’s hand shook as he wiped it across his face, his eyes shining with the threat of tears. “Because it’s not a story I ever wanted to have to tell you,” he said, blinking them away. “I’ve spent every day since trying to protect you from that incident.”

“But I was shaped by this incident,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest. “It was there—inside me all along—whether you ever told me it happened or not.”

“I know,” he said, voice cracking on the words. “But if I said it out loud, it would become more real. I didn’t want it to define you. I didn’t want you to carry it like I did. I wanted to believe I could undo the damage.”

“By lying?”

“By loving you enough that it wouldn’t matter.”

“But it obviously fucking matters, Dad. It might’ve helped me to know this about myself. I might’ve felt less guilty. Instead, you shamed me for needing something I didn’t even understand.”

“I don’t like that you have to do it,” he said quietly, head shaking. “I want you to stop.”

“But how could I stop when I never knew why I was doing it in the first place? Sounds like you just don’t like being reminded.”

“Of course I don’t. Every time you hurt yourself, it brings back the memory of that day. You don’t remember it—but I do, and it haunts me. What she did to you was unforgivable. It took you years to recover. You were alone, screaming and crying for me, and I didn’t come. No one came. And I will never, ever forgive myself for that.”

There it was. The admission of guilt.

“So you are responsible.”

“Of course I’m responsible. She’s at fault, but I should’ve known better. I should never have walked away.”

Walked away.

That’s when it clicked.

The sharp truth, sliding into place. He’d walked away then. And somehow, seven years later, he’d chosen to do it again.