“Stop.” I say the word sharply, cutting through her spiral of self-recrimination.
She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face, terror in her eyes. She’s afraid of me now, I realize—afraid of what I’ll do with this knowledge.
I’m quiet for a long moment, watching my friend fall apart, feeling my own heart break for the child she was. For both the children we were.
The anger I expected doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a deep, overwhelming sadness that settles in my bones like the winter cold.
“You were six,” I say finally, my voice steady despite the tears on my own cheeks. “Six years old, Daciana. A baby.”
“That doesn’t make it—”
“It makes it exactly what it was,” I interrupt firmly. “Child abuse. You were a victim, too.”
She stares at me like I’ve said something impossible. “But
