rarely needs one.”
I looked up.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sometimes the truth is exactly what you lived.”
I remembered that sentence.
I’d spent years waiting for proof substantial enough to justify my suffering.
A secret account.
A confession.
A crime.
Something undeniable.
But my daily life already provided evidence.
The photograph.
The messages.
The bruises.
The allowance spreadsheet.
The restricted cards.
The empty side of our bed.
I’d been conditioned to demand more proof of my pain than I’d ever require from someone else.
When apologies failed,
