Knowing that she had not murdered her son, knowing perhaps that she could have, Rhiannon preferred to carry her burden rather than argue whose it was. Seven years she sat by the mounting block and lied about herself, telling the story they wanted to hear, the ballad of the bad mother. They never saw her rage or her tears; her fists were clenched beneath her knees. Did she recognize the child another woman had fed for seven years? All we know is that she named him anxiety.
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