Chapter 113
Tw: Mention of child molestation and child abuse
Lilac’s childhood was anything but blissful. Her father was a man who had a one-night affair with her mother, and after that, they had never seen each other again. Eve didn’t know she was pregnant until three months later when she discovered she was beginning to bloat and vomit a lot. When she gave birth, her mother barely had any time for her, as she was always with one man or another. She was basically neglected.
The apartment they lived in always felt cold, even in the height of summer. The floorboards creaked from years of wear; the fridge was often empty, save for a rotting fruit or a near-expired carton of milk. Clothes were hand-me-downs scavenged from charity bins or discarded by lovers who forgot them in haste. Some were too big, some too small but Lilac wore them all without complaint. She learned early on that complaints went unheard in that house.
At five, she knew how to silence her own sobs. At six, she learned to sleep through drunken fights. At seven, she stopped asking her mother to attend school events because Eve never remembered and when she did, she showed up late, reeking of alcohol and poorly concealed disdain.
Sometimes, Eve wouldn’t come home for days. Lilac would crouch by the window, stomach gnawing itself in hunger, watching headlights pass by in the hope one of them would bring her mother back. She’d survive on stale crackers or stolen leftovers from neighbors’ doorsteps. When the cold set in and they couldn’t afford heating, Lilac wrapped herself in thin blankets, teeth chattering, curled up on the floor like a stray dog.
Worse than the hunger or the cold was the loneliness she felt—a deep, cavernous thing. No one tucked her in. No one kissed her bruises or praised her drawings. Her laughter, when it did come, was too soft to echo in that house. The only voices she ever heard were the ones coming from behind her mother’s bedroom door, moans, arguments, and sometimes, crying.
One winter, she got sick. Feverish and shaking, she lay alone in bed for two days. Eve never noticed. When she finally returned home, she muttered something about being too busy and handed Lilac a bottle of expired cough syrup, then went back to her room with a new man. Lilac drank it anyway. She always had to fix herself.
By the time she was eight, Lilac had lost any hope that she may be loved. She told herself stories before bed—ones where a real mother would brush her hair and tell her she mattered, that she was beautiful, wanted, enough. But she knew that it was all fake. No one would want her, no one would love her...
Not until she met Amelia.