I backed up, reading all the other spines on the two shelves, heavy with more than just the weight of the hardbacks. I liked to put them on the shelf whenever he gave me one. It pleased him to see me display his gifts, but also…it was like I’d accomplished something. It was like a trophy. When the bruises faded, and I had nothing else to show for what would never fade in my head, I had this. One book for every time I stood back up. Again. And again. And again. He’d bought me other things over the years, presents every time he’d spent his anger and the guilt crept in, and those things were also
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