She's made me breakfast on a day when I wish to skip more meals in an endeavour to become thinner, on a grey October morning when I want more than ever to avoid her. She sits there while I eat, trying to eat her own meal, trying to pretend to read the newspaper, but I sense her concentration eluding her.

I don't want to swallow; I want to scream, to vomit the silence that has apparently settled around me once again, after I've just broken it the night before. She isn't talking because there is nothing to discuss; she is wordless because there is too much to say. The scrambled eggs scratch my throat. The orange juice burns my tongue, and I gag on the toast. All I've tasted while eating is fear, shame, and regret.

I finish and dash down the stairs to re-emerge at the landing ten minutes later, wearing my blue backpack.

“I'll drive you today.” Her voice doesn't sound the same. It sounds like heartbreak and shards of the blissful ignorance I've shattered. I won't, can't meet her eyes. No thanks, I tell her, not sure where I've found my larynx. “Thanks for breakfast.”

It's cold walking down the hill. We had the first frost last night, as predicted by the meteorologists. What the scientists didn't tell me was that the plants and mailboxes and landscaping features wouldn't be the only things covered with ice. There's a heavy, sick feeling at the bottom of my chest that just digs deeper with every breath; it's the terror of what will happen when I arrive home this afternoon. Ice and fire are closer than usually recognised, and it won't take much for frigid silence to thaw into raging flames. I'm anticipating dark fires of anger, pain, disgust and vengefulness to consume her later today, when the first shock waves have worn off, and I'll cringe and flail about trying to extinguish the blaze.

There is, in honesty, no way I could expect you to be calm about this, no way that this shouldn't or ever wouldn't jar you. I just hope that after the horror has worn off, after you've been so intensely shaken up, you'll still love me for who I am.

There's a lump in my throat as I approach the school. There is no way I'll ever be your beautiful little girl again, no way you'll ever see me in the same light, and I can't even blame you. It's all my actions and all my fault, ever last bit, because I'm not a victim but a participant, guilty as charged.