ITTER

ing

an most people's homes. I walk through the garden at dawn because it's the only time the estate feels mine. The marble fountains

't wash the

breathe through expensive wallpaper. I touch each rose bush like I'm counting children. Twenty-plus years, I'v

eye, watching, judging. Inside those walls, my husband sleeps in silk sheets that cost more than a car. My childr

eal blood that mingles with morning tears I refuse to shed. This garden is my church, my confession booth, m

s glow like amber. My family wake

n, still bleeding from Rose Thorns, when Raul's wife shatters my

he sobs, "I

s, maybe years. The glances too long, the touches too soft, the way my son lo

y voice sounds

In our bed. In

ilting like the world just cracked its spine. Twenty-three years old, my daughter. Twenty-five, my son.

e breaks into animal sounds. "How lo

Raul's marriage turned cold as Maine winter. Since I found them in th

r, but she's already gone. The

inting everything gold the roses, the fountain, my bloody palm. Be

nts and crystal decanters. He sits behind his mahogany desk like a king on his throne, silver hair perfe

ed to

uid into a glass and drinks like he's swallowing sunshin

bout?"

taste like poison, but I for

believe in forever. They're empty now, black holes

about

me. She caught

another sip of liquid gold and smiles that politician's smile that

tural,"

like discussing rain or sunrise. Like my children's

oice cracks. "T

crystal chimes against mahogany like a funeral

ho whispered poetry in my ear twenty-eight years ago

il he looks away, back to his papers

as a tomb beneath my bare feet. Everything in here costs more than cars,Ita

d with dreams. Hands callused from gardens, not from work that matters. A farmer's daughter wearin

e hollow. Her mouth trembles with words she's too afraid to spe

," I whis

no

always

water. Like she's drownin

fragments, each piece reflecting a different version of my shame. Blood drips from my knu

ther used to say. But I've alread

e first time in years, I see myself. Not the politician's wife, n

and awake and ready t

ers on marble, leaving me staring at an e