“Three months?” I repeated.
She nodded, “I mean, I get it at first, when I was annoying the hell out of you, but after that… You had plenty of time before Christmas, but that was the first time you said anything. I’m just… confused.”
I went for the honest answer, “I didn’t notice, actually. Couldn’t you sleep before?”
She turned away, shaking her head slowly. Her voice was barely audible, “I haven’t been able to sleep well for a long time.”
She didn’t explain anything further, so I pressed onward carefully, “Why… is that?”
She looked at the ground, out the window, at the potatoes, in the sink, anywhere but me. Finally, she spoke again, “Bad things happen at night.”
“Such as?” I asked, tentatively.
She looked up at me, and unfathomable expression in her eyes, “Do you know why I left?” It was a rhetorical question, but I shook my head all the same. “I was sick of it,” she continued bitterly, “Sick of making excuses for them. For him. Sick of trying to make it ok, right, justified.”