“Yes, and I love you. I’ve always loved you. That is the truth, my truth.” She reaches her hand out, but he shakes his head and keeps moving.

“I wanted to be a good mother,” she says.

“And so you lied about everything?”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“Pretty sure you were protecting yourself.”

“Yes. I see that.”

Jason sits down on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. Shelley wants to go and sit beside him, but she’s afraid he’ll push her away. He tells her how he’s been getting a ride back and forth from school to come and check on them, see what he could find out; he’s the one who ate the bread and drank the milk. He has heard her cry at night, watched Harvey wake and make his way to her room. He took showers when she and Harvey left the house, sometimes even slept a few hours in his own bed. Otherwise, he was in a tent out there in the woods.

“I don’t get it,” he finally says.

“I was afraid.” She steps closer, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t raise his voice, just lets out a big breath and slumps onto his pillow, eyes closed. “I’ve been afraid my whole life. I know you might never understand and you might never be able to forgive me, but I just couldn’t look back. I was so afraid it would all poison me, too. I wanted to be a good mother. That’s what I wanted more than anything. I was afraid anyone who knew the truth wouldn’t want me, or you or your brother.”

After a long pause, he reaches off the bed to the floor and riffles through the pages until he holds up the one that has her photo from sixth grade; she’s in navy-blue knee socks and her favorite plaid skirt. It was wool, and she wore it even though it was springtime and way too hot. “Honey, you’re gonna burn up,” one of the teachers in charge had said, and offered to help her find something else, but it was her favorite, and she felt best about herself when she wore it—a kilt, like kids sometimes wear at schools where they all dress alike so nobody feels different, and it had a big safety pin holding the flaps together, and she liked the security of that pin, the sturdy click of something that held things together. The teacher asked were her parents coming, but she pretended not to hear and focused on tying her shoes instead. Her features are blurred in the picture, but she is smiling and holding up the ribbon they gave her when she was the last one standing.

“C-o-n-v-a-l-e-s-c-e.”