“I’ve never done any more than this.”

“Fuck you, George.”

“I swear it.”

“She’s my baby.”

“But I never hurt her.”

“You should leave now.”

“But this is my house.”

“Fuck you and this house!”

“I want to explain.”

“I said get out! Now!”

“Can I at least take something with me?”

“You’ve already taken more than enough. Now, get out of here before I call the police! Oh. I forgot. You are the fucking police!”

Now I’m shivering and can’t stop. There’s blood on my hands and wrists, and I realize I’m still gripping the lamp as he heads toward the garage. I could kill him. I should kill him. But I don’t move. I listen as he starts up the car and the Genie lifts and then the garage door closes shut. I stand in the kitchen for the longest time until, finally, I open the door to make sure he’s gone. My Easter stuff looks stupid out there. I should stop doing this silly shit. I really should. Nobody cares anyway.

Shanice’s cleats are on the top step. They look worn out. All she ever wanted to do was run track. Break records. Fly. Like they say on those Nike and Reebok ads. She pushes herself so hard. Harder than I’ve ever pushed myself to do anything. Maybe that’s why he wanted her. Because she’s young and beautiful and can still fly. But I used to be her. Stop lying, Janelle. You wish you were her. She knows what she likes. What she’s good at. She’s more focused at twelve than you are at thirty-five.

Why didn’t I see the signs? When she stopped giving us both good-night kisses? That was over a year ago. Now I’m confused. I have to think back. I have to replay the last year or two in my mind. But now I’m wondering just how long he’s been doing this shit to my baby. And what if he’s lying? What if he’s touched her the same way he’s touched me? Why didn’t I see it? Why wasn’t I paying closer attention? And why in the hell did I believe him when he said he hadn’t harmed her in any way? I blot my eyes. Because you wanted to believe him, that’s why. Admit it, Janelle. Because harm equals abuse, and that meant I’d lose everything. We would be on our own. And I’ve never been on my own. I don’t even know if I can make it without someone holding me up.

I close the door, walk over, and look up at the stairs. I will put a fresh coat of paint on that railing tomorrow. I will. I know I have to walk all the way over there and then up those steps, but I can’t. Not yet. She lied because she was probably afraid. And I believed him. I set the lamp on the counter and force my feet to move. I don’t know how I’m going to make it to that top step. But I have to. There’s no one here to help me. But there’s no one up there helping my daughter either. My legs weigh a ton. All I can do is pretend to be in step class and lift one foot after the other until I find myself standing here, outside her bedroom door, which is closed. I knock. Listening for her voice. It cracks when she tells me to come in. She’s in there waiting for me. I touch the doorknob, but don’t have the strength to turn it. I try again, but it won’t turn. I’m afraid. Afraid I won’t know what to say to her when this door finally opens, but even more afraid of what she’s going to say to me.