They are afraid of her, of some power she has no idea how to wield. There is nothing Dawn can say or do or cry about to change anyone’s mind. It had seemed so obvious when she left the house that morning. She loved her daughter; that was the main thing. People would be reasonable. They would be fair. Now the barrister reads her private letters, and Dawn sits and thinks of all the ways she could have, should have, made these words disappear. Bleach. Fire. Scissors.
