I only half-lied in that letter. I told him the truth about the thought process of being pregnant at eighteen. I just lied about my identity.

It wasn’t Rory who wrote to him; it was me.

And I didn’t abort the baby; I kept her.

Not that I didn’t think about having an abortion at the time. I went as far as booking an appointment at the clinic. But when I arrived and flipped through the leaflets, the clock moving at a snail’s pace, each tick-tock sound flicking my skin like a welt, I realized I couldn’t do it.

Not to her. Not to me. We were in this together.

Then there was her scar.

Of course, I wanted her to hide or remove it. But I couldn’t afford the plastic surgery. I hate it, okay? That’s the truth. It’s a constant reminder of how I failed my daughter. I couldn’t keep her safe from her own father, even when the writing was on the wall, smeared in a drunk’s man vomit.

There are the good souls asking me why I didn’t tell Rory the entire story. Well, what kind of good would it have done her? It was easier to keep her innocence intact, to send Father Doherty gifts, which he sent back to her, and pretend her father was functioning and loving and present. Should I really have told her we sent him to jail? Should I have scarred her again before she even knew how to spell her own name?

I let her think what she wanted to think.

That he was some kind of a hero, that she was deeply loved.

She already thought I was lame. So I scored a few more lameness points. Big deal.

All I ever wanted was to protect my daughter.

By hiding the letters.

By telling Malachy to back off.

Sure, the way I did it may offend some people. I definitely took it too far. Most parents in my position, I believe, would have ignored Mal’s letters. Or simply not opened them in the first place. But I thought I was saving her.

And I’ll do anything in my power to help her.

Even if it kills me.

Even if it villainizes me.

That’s what they don’t tell you in the movies. Bad guys have hearts, too.

Chapter 20

Present

Mal

Finding Debbie Jenkins at my doorstep was akin to finding dog shit on my porch, lit on fire, attached to a ticking time bomb, which had been secured to a school bus full of kids.

This woman has messed with my life more than anyone else I know, and still, I called her here, knowing that Rory needs her. I put her on a plane—first class, in case you were wondering, a luxury I’d never indulge in myself—so she could salvage her relationship with her daughter.