Page 13 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“And you think that’s something you should live with?” Maria asks.
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, what unsettles me isn’t just what he did.
It’s that part of me understands what it takes to reach that point.
And that scares me more than anything they’re saying.
I pull my legs up tighter against my chest, wrapping my arms around them until my chin disappears into the collar of my sweater. The fabric presses against my mouth, muffling my breathing. I make myself small without thinking about it, shoulders curving inward, back rounding as if I can fold into myself and disappear from the conversation entirely.
“I came from a home too,” I say quietly.
The words feel important, even if they don’t carry the same weight in their minds.
Cheyenne exhales slowly, her tone shifting from sharp to cautious. “Not one like his, Octavia,” she says. “Mrs. Marrow… your mom… she knew you for years before they asked to take you in. Before your bio mom…”
“Before my mom killed herself,” I finish for her.
There’s no tremble in my voice. No sudden rush of emotion. The emptiness that settled in the day it happened has never really left. It just lives there now, dormant and constant.
“You don’t have to tiptoe around it,” I continue. “She’s the one who spiraled. She’s the one who took me from Brightside. And she’s the one who would have used me to survive if the fentanyl hadn’t taken her first.”
The room grows heavier after that.
I remember that day in pieces.
Somehow that makes it worse.
I remember thinking she looked better when she showed up at Brightside Adoption. Cleaner..focused. Like maybe she had finally chosen sobriety over everything else. I let myself believe she was there to do the right thing.
I should have questioned why she insisted we leave through the back.
I should have questioned why she didn’t want anyone seeing us together.
I should have questioned why she seemed so eager for me to meet the “friends” she kept mentioning.
Sometimes, when I let my mind drift too far, I wonder what would have happened if those friends had made it to the motel room before the drugs shut her down. I wonder how thin the line really was between what happened and something far worse.
Cheyenne shifts on the bed, her voice quieter now but still firm. “I’m just saying, not everyone deserves the kind of kindness your parents offer.”
I nod faintly. “My dad served with his,” I say. “He’s never explained much, but I know he carries guilt about this boy. I can see it in him. I just don’t know what for.”
Maria’s jaw tightens. “Does it matter? Once someone crosses that line…”
She doesn’t finish, but the implication lingers.
Cheyenne starts building again, her worry gaining momentum. “Your parents can’t just bring someone like that into your house. They can’t pretend this is some feel-good rescue story.”
Their voices overlap, concern feeding off concern. I let them talk.
My eyes drift toward the mirror on the wall.
I barely recognize myself for a second. I’m hunched over on the floor, wrapped in layers, hair falling forward around my face. Then I see it more clearly. The girl from the motel room is still there, just older now.
My body has changed. Filled out in ways that draw attention even when I try to avoid it. I inherited my mother’s curves before the drugs hollowed her out. I stare at the thick scar along my left cheek, the way it interrupts the smoothness of my skin. It’s a reminder I don’t get to escape where I came from.
My hair falls down my back in loose waves, threaded with the small braids Maria made. The color is the same rich brown mymother had. My eyes are the same too. Sometimes that feels like a betrayal.
