I stared at him, speechless. “Disturbed? Mark, it’s part of life.”
“Private,” I repeated slowly, feeling the word burn on my tongue. “Or taboo?”
He sighed, frustrated. “Can’t she at least wrap it better? Or, I don’t know, keep it out of sight?”
I took a deep breath, holding back the anger that wanted to spill over. “Mark, she’s twelve. She’s already scared and self-conscious. The last thing she needs is to feel like she’s dirty.”
He looked away, muttering, “I’m just saying, it makes the boys uncomfortable.”
Uncomfortable.
That word followed me all day like a shadow.
When I later found her in her room, she was crying quietly into her pillow.
“They don’t even want to talk to me,” she whispered. “I heard them laughing about it downstairs. And Dad… he told me I should stay in my room until it’s over so I don’t make them uncomfortable.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. I felt my chest tighten, my heart ache in that raw, familiar way mothers feel when their child is hurt — not from the outside world, but from inside their own home.
I sat on the bed beside her, brushing her hair gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Emily. Do you hear me? You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“But everyone acts like I did.”
That broke me.
Because she was right.
That night, I stood in the kitchen alone, the clock ticking softly, the house asleep. I poured a glass of water, but the tremor in my hands made it spill. The image of Emily’s tear-streaked face haunted me. I thought about the generations of women before us — silenced, hidden, told to be discreet about their pain. And I realized something: if I didn’t speak up now, I’d be teaching her that silence was the right answer.
