Carol noticed the change in her daughter’s tone when she spoke of her. Diane’s arrogance wavered, replaced by simmering resentment. “She hates me,” she spat one night. “She just wants me gone.” Carol pressed her lips tight, remembering too well how cruelty from adults could outlast childhood.
The prospect of a meeting with the new principal filled Carol’s heart with dread. The hallway walk, the waiting room, her daughter’s defiance—all of it would unfold just as before. But this time, dread wasn’t born of expulsion alone. It was born of memory, of recognition, of the face waiting inside.