Even so, deep down, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong. That this wasn’t my fault, and in a perfect world, I could tell people what happened and somehow not be ashamed. In real life, though, this was harder. I was used to being looked at—it was part of who I was, who I’d been as long as I could remember. But once people knew about this, I was sure they’d see me in a different way. That with every glance, they’d no longer see me, but what had happened to me, so raw and shameful and private, turned outward and suddenly scrutinized. I wouldn’t be the girl who had everything, but the girl who’d
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