My daughter’s finally made a friend. Tara, in her new school. She doesn’t know her well. Doesn’t know anyone well. Tara is an only child. Her father is an orthopedist. The mother works part-time in his office. And when she’s not working, I’m not sure what she does. Perhaps sits home and drinks. I hope not. Because I’ve given my daughter, who is finding it hard to make friends, permission to go to Tara’s weekend cottage with her mother. Her father won’t be there. That’s good, I think, no men.

When my daughter gets back, she tells me that Tara’s mother needed help driving over the toll bridge on Sunday. Actually had to stop the car and get out and use the emergency phone. Apparently, there is a man whose job it is to escort petrified drivers. He finds their car and drives it across the rest of the bridge while Tara’s mom sobs in the passenger seat, and the two girls sit silent in the back. What about the drive over the bridge on Friday? No problem, my daughter says, there was no traffic then.

The first time my daughter tells the story, the car is halfway across the bridge. But later, when the other stuff comes out, she says the car hadn’t yet started over the bridge. Perhaps that is what really happened.

The only thing I’m sure of is that my daughter won’t tell me about the other stuff. She casually drops into the conversation that Tara’s brothers were there. Tara has brothers? Yes, older, in college, two half-brothers. They weren’t supposed to be there. A few weeks later my daughter tells me one brother kept following her all weekend, even though the other one told him to quit it. That brother came into her room. Did he do something to you? What? What did he do? She won’t say, no matter how many times I bring it up. Begs me not to call Tara’s mom. Then I won’t have any friends, Mom. Not one. But she agrees to talk to her pediatrician. He ushers her into the exam room. The doctor’s lips tighten when he opens the door. He tells me not to worry. My daughter’s stony silence on the drive home. Later that night, I did what you want. Now leave me alone.

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Now, my daughter has a daughter. I think about bringing up the other stuff. Finding out what Tara’s brother did. Would she tell me after so many years? Perhaps it was much worse than I imagined. Perhaps it was nothing. She hasn’t mentioned Tara in years. Not since they were seniors. When my ex drove her to the hospital at three a.m. to find Tara in the ER. The cops, the rape kit. My daughter told me all about it the next day. Told me Tara’s mother told them she was raped too, when she was in high school, and by a boy she knew. That last part my daughter is sure about. I wait for my daughter to ask me if I was ever raped. In high school or any other time. But she never does.

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Roberta Beary identifies as genderfluid. A trauma survivor, they write so that others know they are seen, heard, and believed. Their work appears in Best Small Fictions (x2) and Best Microfiction (x2), the New York Times Modern Love, Rattle, and other publications. Their awards include the 2022 Bridport Prize for poetry. Partial to corgis, blended families, and Broadway musicals, they divide their time between the United States and Ireland.