Some stories take ten years to name.
I wrote a book.
It took me ten years.
And when it came time to name her,
I couldn’t choose just any name.
Not with the weight of what she carried.
And then, almost overnight,
her name revealed itself.
Hidden in plain sight.
Chloe.
Undone.
An acronym, woven through the story:
Child
Harmed
Loved
Overwritten
Erased
Undone.
This is a story about a girl, like any other.
A wallflower.
A wildflower.
A spark of light
raised in the dark.
And the things that happen to good girls.
The things we don’t speak about.
The things publishers have called
“thought-provoking”
but not something they could publish.
Too dark.
Too far.
Too much.
And yet
entirely true.
A bitter pill to swallow.
And still…
Readers read.
Readers wept.
Readers healed.
And Chloe?
She’s doing okay.
She’s middle-aged now.
Doing everything in her power
to show good girls
it’s safe not to be good.
Not to be nice.
Not to be compliant.
She is strong and soft.
She is earned.
She is brilliant in her own way.
She walks through forests,
looking at frogs,
picking wildflowers,
touching moss,
skipping stones.
Reclaiming the parts of her
that were taken
without consent.
She isn’t bitter.
She is settling.
Even when the world still, at times,
provokes a snarl.
She is exhaling.
In the parts of me
that finally allowed her
to feel safe.
The way she is now?
Perfectly splendid.
Beautifully broken.
Entirely whole.
If you want to read her
ask.
I’ll send her to you.
Under one condition.
You read her right.
With love and fire,
—M💋
