I didn’t answer, which was answer enough. The great shame of my life is that I’ve retained no memories of my childhood. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn’t suffer from this form of amnesia. A few years ago, I learned that even the performers serving out their sentences here recalled their childhoods quite fondly, even when it was obvious those memories were washed over and revised in their minds. I’d love to have this type of nostalgia, but it is as though I emerged from a clamshell at the age of eleven. The first memory etched in my mind is of a birthday cake, a pink tiered monstrosity with the words ONZE ANS written between layers. I was bewildered that day, not recognizing the celebrants around the table. Like a muscle memory, I knew to blow the candles out after the verse of “Joyeux Anniversaire” was sung, but I did not immediately answer to the name Cecile, as though it were foreign to me. Worse yet, I had no memory of the girl with the chin-length black hair who sat beside me.

This same girl sat beside me. Her words had a way of twisting around me and cutting off the circulation around my neck, causing me to feel breathless. In my head, I’ve kept a ledger of each insult. Without memories to anchor me, her accusations have begun to define me. She was beautiful, confident, and talented, yet I was nothing—a creature with no past and no purpose. I swallowed hard, having nothing to lose. “Quit hinting like a coward. Just tell me, for once. Why do you remember, but I don’t?” I faced her, ready for the confrontation. Or at least I thought I was, but her knowing smile struck fear in me.

The smile didn’t last long before her face twisted. I could tell calling her a coward had emboldened her, just as I knew it would. “He didn’t think you were strong enough, so he took your memories.”

I felt my world tilt. This comment was pure madness and yet it made all the sense in the world. Illness or injury was not the cause of my emptiness. My memories—my life—had been taken from me. That they’d been stolen was the only answer that made sense. And the he was most definitely our father. Gripping the vanity, I processed the knowledge for a moment. “Why?”