out?” I nod. “Do you know a lot of people like me?” “Only one.” I remain silent as she stares at me with her inquisitive eyes, but I don’t look at her. I can’t. Not right now. “My mom.” “What happened to her?” Her voice is softer than the silence, even as it disturbs it, stabs it, and refuses to leave its wound alone. “What makes you think something happened?” “Something always happens in these situations. People deal with trauma differently. Some internalize it, others express it, but the fact remains that the scars will always be there.” “So you admit to having scars.”
