Chapter 1

My mom was a liar.

She said my dad hit her.

But every time she pulled up her sleeves, her skin was clear, without a single mark.

She'd cry and say, "He hit me again last night."

My dad would just stand by, sighing, "She's having another episode."

Arthur, my dad, was a high school principal, gentle and refined.

Everyone praised him as a good husband and father.

And my mom?

The neighbors said she was sick, Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression, and doctors diagnosed paranoid delusion.

I believed them too.

Until that late night, when I came home early and caught my dad raising his fist.

My mom saw me through the crack in the door.

In that instant, her eyes lit up.

It was then I understood she wasn't waiting for me to save her.

She was waiting for me to see it for myself.

For as long as I could remember, Eleanor, my mom, told me Arthur, my dad, hit her.

But she never had any proof.

Every time she'd pull up her sleeves to show me, her skin was perfectly clear, not even a red mark.

Every time she'd cry, "He hit me again last night," my dad would stand next to her, sighing, a helpless look on his face: "She's having another episode."

My dad was a high school principal, gentle and refined. All the teachers and students admired him.

He attended my parent-teacher conferences, cooked for me, and when I had a fever, he'd stay by my bedside all night.

He was the best dad in the world; I'd always thought that since I was little.

And my mom?

She'd suddenly throw things, suddenly scream, suddenly hug me and cry, saying, "If Mom dies, you have to live well."

The neighbors said she had a mental illness.

Grandma Rose said it was postpartum depression; she'd been like this since I was born – suspicious, paranoid, and now it was worse.

I took her to see a psychologist three times.

Each diagnosis was the same: moderate depression with paranoid delusion.

Even with the diagnosis, it wasn't like I'd never had doubts.

Once, when I was little, I saw some red marks on my mom's arm and asked her how she got them.

Before she could answer, my dad spoke up: "Your mom had a nightmare last night and pinched herself."

My mom opened her mouth, but didn't contradict him.

I thought it was strange at the time, but I didn't think much of it.

Later, I just got used to it.

Used to her crying, used to her making a fuss, used to her suddenly putting down her forks at the dinner table and saying, "He hit me again." Then my dad would sigh and put some food on my plate: "Eat. Don't mind her."

I started to get annoyed with her.

When I was in middle school, she once ran into my room in the middle of the night, shook me awake, and said, "Maya, your dad just pinched my thigh. Go check, there must be a mark."

I was so sleepy I just rolled over: "Eleanor, can you please stop? I have school tomorrow."

She stood by my bed, motionless for a long time.

I thought she'd left.

As I was drifting off to sleep, I heard her whisper, "I'm not making a fuss, I really am not."

I ignored her.

It was even more annoying in high school.

Every time she came back from the hospital, she'd pull me aside and ramble on about, "Your dad hit me again."

I'd slam the door: "Can you stop pretending? Will you only be happy if you drive Arthur away?"

She stopped talking.

At the time, I thought she just didn't want me to have a good life.

I'd worked so hard to get into a good high school. My dad cooked me delicious food every day and stayed up late studying with me.

And her? All she did was fuss and cry.

Once, she even chased me to the school gate and, in front of my classmates, pulled me aside and said, "Your dad hit me last night."

I yanked my hand away, my voice loud: "Are you insane?"

All my classmates were staring at me.

My mom stood at the school gate, stunned for a long time, then turned and walked away.

Her back was hunched, and she walked very slowly.

I was embarrassed then.

Now that I think about it, she was wearing long sleeves and long pants that day, in over ninety-degree weather.