“What happened to him?”
“Mom—”
She stiffened.
It was the first time I had called her that without thinking.
“What happened to Michael?”
I looked away.
“He died.”
“How?”
“We don’t need to do this today.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“Why are you willing to tell me everything except this?”
Because I had spent most of my life believing I killed him.
I didn’t say that.
Instead I walked out.
My father died when I was nine.
The memory that remained in my mind was incomplete.
A street.
A horn.
My father shouting.
My small body falling.
Blood on pavement.
Adults screaming.
Then my aunt telling me later that Dad was gone.
For years, I believed I had run into the road after dropping a toy.
My father had chased me.
