We used to sit around the dinner table every night, but this is the first time we’ve done it since Will died. I still can’t say the word out loud. I can think it, but even that hurts. I miss him so much, and I know it was my fault even though Dad says it wasn’t. He said accidents happen, but they don’t when you’re careful.

Mum hasn’t said it’s my fault since she almost did the first time, but I know what she’s thinking. I can see it in how she looks at me. Sometimes I don’t think she likes me very much, but I’m all she has left.

I know Will was her favorite because he was younger. You become boring when you’re older, and, if she could choose, she would have kept him and lost me. But you don’t get to choose the big things; they just happen.

If I could choose, I would have stayed outside until he got tired or taken him back in even if he cried. I wouldn’t have left him, and I wouldn’t have checked my phone.

I have dreams about what I saw, and I wake up, scared, and sometimes Dad is asleep in the chair next to me and sometimes he isn’t. When he’s there, he whispers me back to sleep, and, when he’s not, I try to do it myself, but it’s not the same. Mum is never there because she has her own dreams to worry about.

I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry I messed up and that some mistakes are too big to repair. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry, but it doesn’t help.

I used to say it every day until Mum shouted: “Stop apologizing!” so now I only say it in my head.

Dad says she doesn’t mean to get angry, and I know he’s right, but I also know I’m the reason.

I want to ask if it gets better, except I’m scared it doesn’t. And I still want to say sorry because keeping it in makes me feel heavy and ready to burst. So I whisper it, and it feels better even if they don’t hear.

I’m sorry.

IIII IIII III

“You don’t have to do this,” Dad says, but Mum says we do. She says we have no choice if we want to stay together.

“Amy…I…” His mouth stays open, but there are tears where the words should be.

I touch his hand, and he pulls it away, holding it to his face while he cries. Except it’s not a cry. It’s a moan and a shout and a sob all mixed into one, and it’s horrible.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

But he shakes his head. “It’s not.”