I had an abortion. I don’t regret it, although a part of me will always mourn the loss of this child. Every year, I will wake up and think what age they’d be right now. What they’d look like. What they’d be up to.

You were a beautiful mistake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t regret you.

Every time you write to me, it’s a reminder of what I shouldn’t have done.

Make it stop.

If you care about me at all, you will respect my wishes and leave me alone.

Not yours,

Rory

The letter cuts me open like a sharp blade, guts the parts she left inside me, and dumps them onto the floor. Everything about it makes me want to throw up.

The content.

The confession.

The abortion.

The mistake.

The fact that it was printed and not handwritten—I’d handwritten all of my letters to her—the ink smudged enough for me to guess she crammed it into an envelope off the printer in a hurry, not even giving it time to dry. That hurts, too.

She sounds icy and emotionally separated and different—not the girl who asked me about God and ran with me in the rain.

I snap. I finally—finally—snap.

Cue a destructive bender.

Mam is away, Bridget is a mess, Rory aborted our child, called me a mistake, and made it clear we are over.

I have nothing to live for, or die for, or look forward to.

I drive down to the village. My plan is to buy whatever alcohol I can afford, which is not much considering Mam hasn’t been working and I’m paying all the bills and buying all the food. When I get to the register and slam two bottles of vodka in front of the cashier, I rummage through my pockets to find out they’re empty. I had a slow busking day. The weather was a state, and whatever I had, I threw into a homeless guy’s mason jar because he looked like he needed it.

My wallet is empty, too. I pretend to look in other pockets, under the scrutiny of the cashier, and I’m contemplating stealing the damn bottles when a delicate hand slips from behind me and hands the lady a debit card.

Kathleen steps forward in one of her teeny-tiny, tight dresses that slashes across her rack, flashing me a seductive smile.

“Mal,” she purrs.

She always purrs these days.

I watch her pay for my alcohol and don’t attempt to argue, fecking gentleman that I am. She throws a bag of crisps and mint gums into the mix, her smile still something big and dazzling.

“Cheers.” I grab the bottles by their necks. I contemplate telling her I owe her, but I don’t want to take her drinking. I’d rather stuff the notes into her mailbox.