A broken sob ripped through me as I buried my face against his shoulder, my body trembling uncontrollably.

I had never believed in God. But in that moment, I prayed.

I prayed for the world to end. I prayed to disappear. I prayed to go back in time, to do something different, to undo this, to fix it, to stop it. But most of all, I prayed for one more second with him. Just one more second.

Because I hadn’t told him I loved him.

Because he hadn’t said it to me.

Because I killed him.

If I hadn’t stormed out of that diner, if I hadn’t started a fight with him, if I had just listened to him⁠—

This was my fault.

He was dead because of me.

Hands grabbed me, pulling me back.

“Let me go,” I screamed, trashing against them.

But then I saw Jamal.

His face was pale, his eyes wide with horror. He dropped to his knees beside me, hands hovering over Dad’s body.

“No,” he whispered, pressing his fingers against Dad’s neck. Checking for a pulse. His expression shattered. “Oh, fuck⁠—”

I just sat there, hands stained red, staring at nothing.

Because I was nothing. I was nothing but a mistake.

Because no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I wanted to be good, I was born to ruin things. Born to ruin people.

I kept hearing it. Tell your mom I love her.

Why?

Why didn’t he say it to me?

Why didn’t he say he loved me before he died?

Because maybe he didn’t.

Maybe in those last moments, he finally realized it.

That I was a mistake.

That I wasn’t worth loving.

That I had destroyed everything good in my life.

Just like I always did.

Maybe he regretted saving me.

Maybe he regretted taking me in.

Maybe he wished he had left me in the foster care system.

Maybe then he’d still be alive.

* * *

I don’t remember what happened after.

I just held on. Until someone pried my fingers from his shirt. Until I was left kneeling in a pool of blood. Until the world tilted and nothing made sense anymore. Until the man who had saved me was nothing but a memory. I sat there on the pavement, covered in his blood, watching paramedics zip my father into a black body bag. People were talking to me, asking me questions, touching my shoulder, but I couldn’t hear any of it.

Because the only father I had ever known was gone.

And I was the one who killed him.

46

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

The clock on the wall ticked too loud.

I sat at the kitchen table, my hands wrapped around a mug of now-cold tea, my foot tapping a restless rhythm against the floor. Mom sat across from me, flipping through the same page of her magazine over and over again.