Because I’m a selfish bastard, and if I told you what I did to our dad you might not forgive me. My mouth burns to say it, to tell her everything, but I can’t, so instead I say, “I don’t have a real good answer to that.”

“Where is Dad? When did you get in contact with him?” She perches on the couch, plays with the end of her white shirt with the DC Comics logo on it. She’s lost some weight after having Cydney.

Growing up, Alana used to ask me and Ma questions about Dad. Why did he leave? What I remember about him? What did he look like? I used to answer some of her questions. When I told her he wasn’t a nice man to Ma and he used to hit her, she’d respond with, “Maybe he changed. People change all the time.” The one thing I admire about my sister, she’s always had a bigger heart than most people.

When Alana was seven years old, she used to write him letters every week but stopped around the time she turned sixteen.

“He died last year on my birthday.”

She gasps in horror at my words.

“I hired a private investigator to find him. He was living on Long Island and was working at a bar. When I introduced myself to him, he knew who I was and told me that he has an account with my bank. He told everyone at the bar how proud of me he was. He got drunk, he asked me about you and Ma. I updated him. Then I asked him why he abused me and Ma.”

I remember that day crystal clearly. I was so fucking angry for how he treated us, and I was happy to see him. I’d never been so fucking confused in my life.

“Hold the fuck up.” She puts her hands up in the air. “You were abused by Dad?”

I avert my eyes to the floor. I never told Alana nor Ma the horrible shit he did to me.

She throws her arms around my shoulders and rests her head on my chest. “I’m so sorry, Gunz. That’s why you would never talk about him.” She pauses. “Does Mom know?”

“No, and don’t say shit to her.”

“I won’t, I promise.”