“I need to tell you something about growing up,” she began, her voice hesitant. “You probably don’t remember this, but when I was 5 and you were 12, mom locked you in the basement for an entire day. You’d talked back to her at breakfast, said something about how she was being unfair.
I remember hearing you crying and pounding on the door, begging to be let out. I did remember that day, though I’d pushed it deep down. The darkness, the cold concrete floor, the growing panic as hours passed. When my mother finally opened the door that evening, she’d acted as if nothing had happened, serving dinner and expecting me to do the same.
I asked Dad if we could let you out. Olivia continued, tears in her eyes. He told me that you were learning an important lesson about respect, and if I kept asking questions, I’d learn the same lesson. I was so scared of being locked down there that I never asked again. I just pretended it hadn’t happened.
You were 5 years old, I said quietly. That wasn’t your responsibility. Maybe not then, she acknowledged. But I was older during other incidents. I was 14 when mom destroyed all your college acceptance letters because you’d chosen schools too far away. I was 16 when dad canled your scholarship interview because you’d refused to break up with your boyfriend.
