Did you ever wish you had a father, or a father figure in your life, Eleanor? Was it something that you missed?
I stared at my hands. It was difficult, talking openly about these things,
dragging them out for inspection when they’d been perfectly fine as they were, hidden away.
“You don’t miss what you’ve never had,” I said eventually. I’d read that somewhere and it sounded as though it ought to be true.
For as long as I can remember, there’s only ever been me and... her. No one else to play with, to talk to, no shared childhood memories.
But I don’t suppose that’s particularly unusual. And it didn’t do me any harm, after all.
I could feel the impact of these words in my stomach, acidic and bitter, swirling around inside.
She was writing in her notebook again and didn’t look up. “Did your mother ever talk about the assault? Did she know her assailant?”
“I stated quite clearly on the first day I came here that I didn’t want to talk about her,” I said. She spoke gently.
“Of course. Don’t worry—we won’t talk about her, Eleanor, not if you don’t want to.
I’m just asking in the context of your father, trying to find out more about him, your feelings about him, that’s all.”
I thought about it. “I don’t really have any feelings about him, Maria.”
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