I looked at my father, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
I let out a shaky breath.
“Of this. Of the way you’re looking at me right now. Of the way everyone will talk about me. Of losing the people I love because I haven’t lived the life they expected.”
My mother began to cry.
“Layla, we gave you everything.”
“I know.”
“We trusted you.”
“I know.”
“Then how could you do this to us?”
I wanted to explain that I had never intended to become the person they were now seeing. That I had spent years trying to be the daughter they wanted while quietly resenting the fact that I had never been asked what I wanted for myself.
But the words came out differently.
“You loved the girl you believed I was,” I said. “You were proud of her. You told everyone how perfect she was. But did either of you ever ask whether I was happy?”
