LUCY
I listen to them tepidly, my body perfectly still, my face remaining an unreadable mask of stone even as something behind my ribs threatens to crack clean down the middle.
My father, teaching me to hold a bow, his hands wrapped around mine, patient as the sun crossed the whole sky.
I dig my nails harder into my palms and force the image back down where it belongs.
A part of me—a small, bleeding part of the girl who used to sit in that low velvet armchair swinging her legs—wants to scream. It wants to reach across the table, grab them by their fine silk clothes, and demand to know why their love wasn't loud enough two years ago, why it only found its voice now that I'm powerful enough to be worth the apology.
They are waiting for me to speak now, their faces filled with a desperate hope that makes my stomach turn over on itself.
