I had a daughter once, well I guess I still do somewhere. She was taken by social services. People stopped looking me in the eye, in the face, stopped looking at me at all.
I have a husband, I know where he is, he is in the hospital in the ward we don’t talk about. People gossip about him, about his truth, about his lies.
I have a house, I live there alone, two bedrooms sparkling clean. I don’t sleep in them, I don’t sleep at all. I sit in a sparklingly clean house waiting for visitors. People don’t stop by, they act like they don’t know I’m here.
I know what I did and didn’t do, I know what I am. Rumours fly in the town, faster and faster creating momentum. I have to hold onto the knowing, my knowing.
Rebecca was my daughter’s name. She wasn’t brought to the funeral, I wonder if she was told. I hope one day she will come to my house and see the sparkling bedrooms. I will tell her my truth. I will tell her the truth. I hope she hears me. I hope she listens.
Dodie Foster, my next door neighbour comes in once a week, dusting and polishing. When she comes in this room she shivers but she does not look me in the eye, she does not see me.
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