Chapter 4

I patted her back gently.

I believed her.

I had to believe her. A mother's love couldn't be faked. She was just sick.

My dad took her to see three different specialists, and they all gave a similar diagnosis: postpartum stress bringing on brief episodes of amnesia, possibly accompanied by mild paranoia.

Every doctor offered the same comforting words: "She will recover. It just takes time and patience."

But my dad's "patience" quickly turned into silent permission.

The first time my mother actually laid a hand on me, my dad just stood in the doorway. His lips twitched slightly, but in the end, he didn't say a single word.

That afternoon, Mason wouldn't stop crying. No matter how much my mom rocked him, he kept screaming.

I finished my homework and walked out of my room, offering quietly, "Mom, do you want me to try holding him?"

She whipped her head around, her eyes turning predatory. "What are you trying to do to him?"

She clutched Mason tightly and took a step back, staring at me as if I were a monster.

I tried to explain. "I just want to help."

"Help? Or do you want to make him cry more so you can show everyone what a terrible mother I am?!"

Her voice rose to a screeching register. "You've always been jealous of him! I know your secret!"

"I'm not, Mom—"

"Shut up!" She lunged forward, her hand flying across my face.

*SLAP!*

It was a heavy, deafening blow.

The sharp sound echoed through the living room, freezing both of us in place.

My cheek burned with a blinding, throbbing pain, but my mind was completely numb with shock.

My mom’s hand remained suspended in the air, trembling violently.

My dad slowly lowered his newspaper, glanced at us, and murmured, "Eleanor, calm down."

"She wants to hurt Mason! Who is she?!" My mom’s voice cracked, her eyes losing focus once again.

"Chloe, go back to your room," my dad sighed, his voice dripping with exhaustion.

I cupped my throbbing cheek and ran back to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. I slid down against the wood, burying my face in my knees.

My cheek didn't hurt nearly as much as the hollow ache opening up in my chest.

Outside my door, I could hear my mother sobbing hysterically while my dad murmured soft, comforting words to her.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock on my door.

"Chloe, sweetie, open the door."

It was my mom. Her voice had returned to its usual, gentle warmth.

I unlocked the door. Her eyes were red and swollen. When she reached out to touch my face, I flinched, instinctively pulling away.

Her hand froze in mid-air, and another wave of tears spilled over. "I'm so sorry, baby. Mommy lost control again. Does it hurt?"

Seeing her cry broke my heart. My anger melted away.

"It doesn't hurt, Mom."

She pulled me into her arms, and this time, I didn't pull away.

Her embrace was exactly as I remembered—warm, smelling faintly of lavender laundry detergent.

"Mommy will get better. The doctors said so. I promise," she whispered in my ear, though I couldn't tell if she was trying to convince me or herself.

But from that day on, the abuse only escalated.

It went from shoving to slapping, from hard pinches on my arms to kicks to my shins and stomach.

And every single incident followed the exact same, twisted pattern:

First, she would have an "episode" and attack me.

Next, she would "snap out of it," crying and begging for my forgiveness.

Finally, she would wrap me in a warm hug, promising it would never happen again.

I trapped myself in this cycle of hope and abuse.

Because when she was "sane," she was the perfect, loving mother I adored.

Occasionally, my dad would pat my head, his eyes filled with a complicated look. "Your mother is sick, Chloe. You need to be understanding."

I would just nod, hiding my fresh bruises under long-sleeved shirts, and quietly help her with the chores.

When summer arrived, wearing long sleeves in ninety-degree weather started looking suspicious. Once, during gym class while we were changing, a classmate noticed the dark purple marks on my arm. She gasped, "Chloe, what happened to your arm?"

Terrified, I quickly pulled my t-shirt over my head and forced a laugh. "Oh, I'm just clumsy. I fell down the stairs."

But some marks were impossible to hide.

The swelling from her slaps would eventually go down, but they left faint, reddish marks on my skin.

One afternoon, my school counselor, Mrs. Gable, called me into her office. She gently asked if everything was alright at home.

I told her my mom was sick and sometimes had trouble regulating her emotions.

Mrs. Gable looked at me with deep concern. "Do you need me to contact Child Protective Services, Chloe?"

I shook my head frantically. "No! Please don't!"

I couldn't let strangers get involved. It would destroy my mom, and it would embarrass my dad. We were a family, and families solve their own problems.

The worst beating happened right before my finals in eighth grade. I was studying late in my room when I got thirsty and went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

As I passed my parents' bedroom, Mason suddenly started crying. My mom burst out of the room, and seeing me standing in the hallway with a glass of water, she instantly flew into a rage.

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