One Sunday afternoon, three months after leaving the house, we were having coffee on the balcony when Brenda told me:
“Mommy, I need to tell you something.”
Her tone put me on alert.
“What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about everything that happened, about how I got to that point, and I realized something.”
“What?”
“That I also had responsibility. Not for what they did. That was their fault. But for staying so long. For accepting the mistreatment. For not defending myself.”
“Brenda, no—”
“Let me finish. For years, I blamed Robert, Carol, the circumstances. And yes, they were cruel. But I allowed them to be. Every time I kept quiet when I should have spoken up, every time I accepted a humiliation, every time I chose peace over my dignity—those were my decisions.”
“You were in a difficult situation. They manipulated you.”
“I know. But I also know there were moments when I could have left. I could have called you. I could have asked for help. And I didn’t, because I was afraid. Afraid of failing. Afraid of admitting I was wrong. Afraid that people would say I didn’t know how to keep my marriage.”
“That doesn’t make you responsible for the abuse.”
“No. But it makes me responsible for my own life. And that is the most important lesson I learned from all this—that no one can save me except myself. You were able to get me out of that house, Mommy, and I will be eternally grateful to you. But rebuilding myself, that I can only do myself.”
I looked at her with astonishment. In those three months, my daughter had grown more than in eight years.
“You’re right,” I said. “And I’m proud of you. Proud that you can see that.”
“There’s something else I want to do.”
“What is it?”
“I want to go to therapy. I need to understand why I accepted all of that. What was in me that made me believe I deserved to be treated like that. Because if I don’t understand it, if I don’t heal it, I’ll repeat the same pattern with someone else.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea.”
She started therapy the following week. She went twice a week. She didn’t tell me everything she talked about with her therapist, but I saw the changes—the way she stood straighter, the way she held my gaze, the way she said no without apologizing.
One night after one of her sessions, she arrived at the apartment with red eyes but with an expression of peace.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yes. Today we talked about forgiveness.”
“About forgiving Robert?”
“No. About forgiving myself. My therapist says I’ve been carrying so much guilt, so much shame, that I haven’t truly allowed myself to heal. That I need to forgive myself for all the times I didn’t defend myself, for all the years I lost, for forgetting myself.”
“And were you able to do it?”
“I’m trying. It’s harder than I thought. But I’m trying.”
While Brenda was rebuilding herself, I observed from a distance what was happening with the Suttons—not because I wanted revenge, but because I needed to make sure they wouldn’t try to hurt Brenda again.
Carol moved into a small apartment in Santa Monica. Nothing luxurious, nothing that resembled the life she had before. I saw her once at the supermarket. She was wearing ordinary clothes, no jewelry, her hair uncolored, showing the gray. She looked small, fragile. She was no longer the haughty woman who shouted orders.
When she saw me, she looked away and left quickly.
