“That first year was so terrible for you. We tried to help you remember; we thought that with time, you’d grow used to seeing her. But it only upset you to realize that you couldn’t remember her. Then you started to leave yourself notes that Mirabelle deserved better, that she belonged with a mother who could love her, not one who couldn’t remember she existed, that she belonged with her father. Eventually, you refused to see her anymore, and that’s when you called Tate.”

Mom looks at me, her eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and longing. I ask even though I already know, but I think I want to hurt her. “Where were you then, Mom?”

She meets my stare and doesn’t look away. “That was before I was sober, Claire. I’m so sorry, honey.”

My legs betray me and I grab for a chair, sit down. My skin is a weighted blanket, and a deep ache settles behind my eyes, around my temples, shoots down my neck and back. I can’t think, my thoughts muddled with images of a baby I never knew existed, of what I have lost, and my hands are fists, pounding into my thighs.

Ruth approaches, hands out like she wants to stop me. “Claire—”

“Please leave,” I say.

“But Claire—” Ruth says.

“Leave!” My vision dims and I move slowly to my bed, where I see my journal on the pillow. I grab a sticky note, press it onto the cover, and scribble the only words that easily come to mind before I slip under the covers fully clothed, and close my eyes. Mirabelle lived. Mirabelle lived. The truth blooms inside me, blotting out the person I thought I was, replacing it with the one I am. The mother who walked away. I try to hold on to everything because I want to remember even if it hurts so bad I can’t breathe. I don’t want to forget, except I do, bit by bit, until I’m breathing normally and sleep takes the rest.