Page 95 of The Version You Hide

I knew something was wrong with me the day you almost drowned. Your father found you in the bathtub, the water so high it had started to seep into your nose and mouth. I’ve never set foot in a church in all my life, but I got on my knees that day, sending praises to the heavens that God didn’t take you from me.

I prayed that I could be the kind of mother that wasn’t so absorbed in her own darkness that she could leave her pride and joy in a running bathtub because she had a sudden craving for caffeine.

I promised to try harder, to be the woman you needed me to be.

But from there things only got worse.

A few days after that, I accidentally slammed your hand in the drawer, twisting your little pinkie. It killed me to see your little eyes fill with tears, staring back at me in accusation. How could I have done this to my baby?

I stopped leaving the house after the time I left you at the grocery store, tucked up in a blanket in your pram. It was though I had stepped out of my life for a moment.

As though I was pretending to be somebody else.

I got three blocks before what I’d done had truly sunken in and raced back up the hill, but by then the police had already been called.

My failure on display for all the town to see.

It got to the point where you could feel my tension. You’d stare up at me in wonder with that mass of blonde curls, your rosy lips curling up in a smile and I would just get up and leave the room because I couldn’t smile back. The depression ate away at me and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I began to resent you. I’d never asked to become a mother, never entailed how much motherhood would change my life, but I always thought it would change me for the better.

Instead, it made me a monster.

It crept in like a shadow in the night, devouring my joy within its blackness.

Do I hate myself for not looking a little harder for the light? Yeah.

But this darkness was all consuming. And it didn’t belong next to your light.

So, I left, unable to take the hurt, the guilt. Little did I know I’d come to experience a different kind of guilt. Guilt for leaving you. For not being there for the big moments in your life.

I’m sorry, Mackenzie. So very sorry.

Love always, Mum.”

Mackenzie tightens her grip on the letter in her hand, squeezing it hard enough that it crumples in her grip. She leans forward and when I reach over to pull aside the curtain of hair that has fallen over her face, I expect to see tears, anguish.

Something.

But her expression is stoic, her mouth set in a hard, grim line. The slight flare of her nostrils the only sign that she’s working hard to process this undeniably distressing information.

I tuck her hair behind her ear, and inch closer to her along the pools edge. I outstretch an arm to comfort her, but she flinches, inching away.

“Don’t.” She swallows hard, pushing her tears way down, and I watch as that wall that she’s built herself rises steadily, brick by brick.

I want nothing more than to hold her through this moment but instead I tuck my arms away, folding them across my chest, fighting the urge to give her the comfort that she desperately needs but won’t allow herself to feel.

“Talk to me, Kenz,” I whisper.

She shakes her head, instead reaching forward to glide her palm along Daisy who hasn’t left her side for more than a few seconds.

“You can’t keep your feelings inside forever.”

She pulls her feet from the pool and hoists herself up, running from the stingray enclosure. Within seconds I’m on my feet, following her down the corridor that leads out to the underwater viewing area. She stands in the centre of the dim, empty space, gazing out at the hundreds of colourful fish and reef sharks that swim by.

“I’m worried about you,” I tell her.

“What do you want from me?” Her voice is low, determined not to break.

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