'I regret having a child,' she said to him once, for no reason at all, as he was doing his homework. 'Greatest regret of my life.' It was quiet in the kitchen, just the two of them, Brian on an overnight tour. There were two potatoes in the oven, the house full with the earthy scent of roasting skins. Peter was about ten at the time, maybe eleven, and still, a decade later, she could see the way the white oval of his face had snapped up in surprise. He'd looked right back down at his homework page as if it hadn't happened, but she could see in his posture that she'd thrown him, that where before he was concentrating in earnest, now he was just pretending. The tips of his fingers were white where he was gripping the pencil. The lead point hovered above the page.
It had taken her a long time to tell Dr. Abbasi about that moment, her absolute worst, worse even that the times she'd smacked him, worse than shooting Francis Gleeson in the face.
And whenever she glimpsed that moment -it came to her at any time, without warning, and always felt like a punch in the mouth- she wondered if it was possible that she had none of these things the doctors said she has, paranoid personality disorder, schizophrenia, schizoid personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder, the diagnosis changed and morphed every year, new names for the same symptoms, but whether, in fact, she'd tricked them all, in a way, by going along, by taking the meds, by going to the session, tricked them the way Brian used to say she'd tricked him into getting married, into have a second baby, having Peter, when he'd never gotten over losing the first. She wondered if she was simply very, very mean.