Even as I think it, confession balloons up in my chest and rushes into my mouth. For a split second, I entertain the thought of telling him. Everything. Every single thing. It’s a novel feeling, completely alien and terrifying. I can’t. I can’t tell him what I did. He’ll hate me. But I like that. I need the accusation. Someone to remind me that I deserve to be shunned by my own mother. Tell me how bad I am, how pathetic and sick and insane.
