People who say “love is trust” probably didn’t grow up in a cult.
My name is Daisy Nabhitha Kittredge. I chose it myself. As an RN in the emergency department in one of New Zealand’s largest hospitals, there wasn’t much left in me of the 16-year-old girl, covered from neck to ankle and not allowed to make eye contact with a boy, who’d run away with five dollars in her pocket and terror in her heart.
Or maybe there was too much left of that girl because I was still slow to trust. Slow to share. And a whole lot slower to get intimate. Which doesn’t put men off much, right?
Unless the man’s a tough Samoan ex-rugby player with sweetness and strength to spare. One who keeps fronting up to help even when you tell him you don’t need it. And what’s even harder to resist - one who wants to help your sisters, too.
I was going to end up sharing. I wasn’t going to be able to help it. But when my walls came down, would he want the person behind them?
Also - who was the person behind them?