I was playing a game with Parker next to the little glass outdoor table that Mom had picked up at a yard sale. It had roses painted on the top, and wherever we pulled our trailer, Mom would set it up outside between two folding chairs. I was jumping over it and running around the other chair. I think I was yelling “now you see me, now you don’t” while Parker laughed. Until I tripped and fell into the table. The glass shattered. Something bit into my stomach, and I was wailing, and there was blood. A lot of it. And then Mom’s white face as she looked at me and ran. I cried for her. I couldn’t understand why she left. But when she came back, her red-stone choker glinted around her neck. My stomach hurt worse for a second, but then she told me to sit up and that it was only a scratch, but there was so much blood in the dirt.

We moved right after that—to the campground where Mom was murdered the very next day.

I must have been so lost in what happened after that I forgot about what came before. And why would I have remembered that? I was always getting little scratches and breaking things I shouldn’t.

But now I see that memory in a different light.

Mom did use magic—at least once—the day before she died. And she put on the choker she never wore. The choker with the stones that match theirs. If there was any doubt left that she was immortal once upon a time, it’s gone.

I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the stomach all over again. Mom used a massive amount of magic—enough to make her a beacon to any vampires around.

And she did it to save me. She knew not to use her magic. She wrote about how much she missed it, but none of that compelled her to use it. I did. My hand presses against my stomach. I don’t even have a scar—not there, at least. It’s what happened the next day that left me gutted.

Her death was probably my fault.

I try to tell myself that I don’t know for sure, but part of me always wanted to blame myself anyway. What if I had woken up earlier? Maybe I could have scared them off or called for help before it was too late, but those were always just the thoughts of a kid who needed someone tangible to blame, even if that person was themself. I let go of those thoughts as I got older, but this information brings them back full force. It makes my guilt a living thing that grows like thorned vines inside me.