But Walsh tapped the manila folder. “This is what we found on Rebecca’s deleted blog drafts. The drafts she never published.”
She slid a piece of paper toward me. It was a printed screenshot of a text editor on Rebecca’s phone.
I read the words, written by the woman who was supposed to be my mother: “Adopted children are essentially wild animals testing the fences. You have to break their spirit early. If you let them win even one battle, if you show them an ounce of weakness, you lose the war forever. She is a prop for our image, nothing more.”
“That,” Walsh said coldly, “is intent. It proves they weren’t strict parents making mistakes. It proves they were sadistic. But to make this stick, to guarantee they get prison time and not just a slap on the wrist, the prosecutor wants the jury to hear your voice.”
To prepare, I began intensive therapy sessions with Dr. Lena Park, a trauma specialist. Dr. Park’s office was a sanctuary of soft lighting and heavy, soundproof doors.
For weeks, I sat on her leather couch and battled my own ghosts. I apologized for everything. I apologized for using her tissues. I asked permission to drink from the water cooler. I hid granola bars in my pockets, terrified that the food would eventually stop coming.
Lena never pitied me. Pity makes you feel small. She gave me autonomy. She asked me which chair I wanted to sit in. She asked me if the blinds should be open or closed. She was rebuilding my ability to make a choice.
During our sixth month of sessions, a question tore its way out of my throat before I could stop it. It was the question that had been rotting inside me since I was six years old.
“Dr. Park?” I asked, staring at my shoes. “Was I… was I hard to love?”
Lena stopped writing in her notebook. She placed her pen down carefully. She didn’t rush to answer, knowing that a quick denial would sound like a lie. She looked at me with a profound, piercing sorrow.
