I don’t admit it to anyone. Even if they’ve asked. I’m private like that. The truth is I’ve had counseling. Gobs of talk therapy. I’m sure it helps others, but I think that any path to healing is the right one. Not talking about it and pretending that I can’t remember is my chosen path. It’s my right to hold that inside. Everyone makes a choice on what they want to do with what was done to them. I’ve chosen to bottle it up. Sequester the evil. Move on. I do it because I’m so ashamed of the stupid mistake that I made. My therapist would chime in right now and interrupt my thoughts to remind me that I was a child and that I had been victimized. That I had no hand in what happened to me. That what Albert Hodge did was his doing—and none of my own.

That’s fine for some to say. That makes them feel better. I’m not mad at anyone.

Just me.

My mother and I had a fight that morning before school. I’d put on some mascara and what I thought was a subtle smear of eye shadow. I was just messing around. It wasn’t that I wanted to be older, more attractive, garner attention. Honestly. I was just being a girl experimenting with makeup.

“You march yourself into the bathroom before your dad sees you,” she said.

My face went hot. “Sorry, Mom.”

“You’ll be sorry if Dad sees you looking like that. No makeup until you are sixteen.”

“And no ears pierced until I’m eighteen,” I told her, with what I’m sure now was a sassy intonation.

My mom gave me a look, and I knew better than to stand there and provoke her into an argument. In truth, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I did what she asked, and I was glad that my dad didn’t get involved. Yes, I was embarrassed.

On the walk to school, I fumed a little. Only a little. This is not an “I’m mad at my mom and running away from home” story. Not at all. It was, in my mind at the time, a little manufactured drama that I could tell everyone. I wanted to start with Charlene, but she had that dental appointment.

So, yes, I had a fight with my mother over makeup. Maybe that did a number on me. Maybe it left me feeling sorry for myself. As much as I’ve thought about it in the years since, I’m still not sure. Sometimes being certain of something is impossible.

I love my mom so much that I never told her everything that happened. I know that if she thought our little conflict had played a part in what I did, it would kill her.