I reached for the doorframe.
“I never got tested last spring,” he said. “There was no test. I lied to you. I lied to you, Claire. I knew. The whole time. Every month you cried in the bathroom, I knew. Every time you said you were sorry, I knew. Every pill you took, every needle, that dye test, I knew it wasn’t you. I knew it was me. And I let you think it was your body. I let you blame yourself for six years.”
My hand slipped off the doorframe.
My knees gave out.
I don’t remember falling. I just remember the floor of my parents’ hallway suddenly being very close, the cold tile against my palms, and my mother’s voice behind me, far away, like it was coming through water.
“Claire? Claire! Claire, honey, look at me!”
I couldn’t answer her. I couldn’t do anything.
