Chapter 1

I am the daughter of a rapist.

Years ago, my mother was forced to carry me to term.

As I grew, my face began to look more and more like the monster who ruined her life.

From that moment on, I became the filthiest, most disgusting thing in her eyes.

Whenever dark stubble sprouted on my brow, she would completely lose control:

"Shave it! Scrape it clean! Don't let me see those vile eyebrows!"

She would drag a razor blade violently across my brow bone.

Over and over, the skin tore open. The wounds festered, seeped pus, scabbed over, and tore open again.

Over the years, fresh cuts permanently marred my face. Proper eyebrows never grew back.

I was forced to keep a ten-foot distance from her at all times.

I was never allowed to step into her bedroom.

Every couch cushion or chair I touched was scrubbed down with bleach and disinfectant dozens of times.

Later, she remarried and gave birth to a plump, rosy-cheeked little girl.

When seven-year-old Amy came inside covered in mud from playing and grabbed Mom's clothes, I flinched on instinct.

Mom just affectionately stroked Amy's cheek:

"My little mess maker."

That was the day I realized "dirty" wasn't always an insult.

That night, I anonymously posted my story on a trauma support board, ending with a question:

"How can I finally be clean?"

The very top reply came from a profile picture I knew all too well:

"You'll be clean once you're dead."

The words on the screen pierced straight through my eyes.

I gripped my phone, a high-pitched ringing buzzing in my ears.

After a long hesitation, I cracked my bedroom door open just an inch.

In the living room, Mom sat on the sofa, staring down at her phone.

The person who replied to me really was Mom.

Ever since I could remember, Mom spent hours every day lurking in trauma support forums.

She answered every single post related to sexual assault.

Total strangers, victims of trauma, huddling together for warmth in the dark corners of the internet.

Seeing her respond to me left me at a total loss.

Did she recognize that the person behind the screen was me?

She was still typing:

"Since you know how hard your mother had it all these years, you should be considerate and stop making her life miserable!"

"She finally found happiness, and you're the extra one who doesn't belong."

"Instead of tormenting each other and living in endless agony, wouldn't it be better to give your mother her life back?"

"Isn't that the best ending for both of you?"

...

Message after message flooded in. Staring at the screen, tears blurred my vision.

Across the room, Mom curled into a ball, shaking violently, chewing on her fingernails.

She stared intensely at her screen, waiting for my response.

Whether she knew I was the poster or not didn't seem to matter anymore.

At least I finally heard her honest thoughts.

She was right.

For eighteen whole years, we had been tormenting each other.

Just standing there, I was a dark, muddy stain on her life.

Because she had scraped my brow bones since I was a child, my face was constantly covered in open scabs. I was painfully thin and frail.

In my teens, my body was as broken as an eighty-year-old's. Naturally, I became the outcast at school whom nobody dared approach.

I hovered my thumb over the screen, biting my lip so hard it bled.

It tasted metallic. Even more metallic than the blood that dripped into my mouth when the razor sliced my brow.

Finally, I replied:

"I understand."

A sudden burst of genuine laughter echoed from the living room.

Mom, despite the heavy dark circles under her eyes, smiled at her phone.

Yet I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying.

She replied:

"Good girl."

It was the first time she had ever praised me.

Just like when Amy built her first Lego tower, Mom had praised her with the exact same gentleness.

"Good girl."

Turns out, Amy and I had received the exact same words after all.

At this very moment, Mom and I were both clutching our phones, smiling at the same time.

Happy about the exact same thing.

What was even better was that I wouldn't have to rack my brain to keep this "promise" to Mom.

Because the doctor had already told me: I had terminal leukemia.

Looking at myself in the mirror, my face was ghostly pale, my brow bone scarred with jagged lines.

I reached up and touched the scars.

All these years, what Mom hated most were the eyes and brows that looked so much like that man.

She always said that only by scraping them completely clean could she erase his shadow.

Mom, I'll give you what you want. I'm going to become completely clean.