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But first, before we feel. Let us rebuild. Let us own this story and tell it in our voices. It is time to reconstruct, so here we go.

As soon as I told my mother who raped me her eyes went wild. She clasped my shoulders fiercely, her eyes running all over me. And then it was her hands, touching my face in a way that made it clear that if my face had folds she would've had raised them to look underneath them. She seemed to be searching for something. And then a tear slipped out of her eye. And then another one. And she pulled me into her arms.

"We will fix this, honey, we will. He will pay for what he did...," She whispered into my ears.

I'm making that up, I'm owning the story. She accused me of lying about her pastor, of being sent by the devil. She turned her back on me.

What did I expect?

My dearest Daffodil I know you're in a much more better place, I know I have never visited your grave out of shame, but I need you. It is so difficult