I knew that if he were to strike me again, I would hit him back. I was looking forward to it. I started looking for things around the house that I could use to pummel him. I began practicing with the fireplace poker, but in the end I needn’t have practiced with anything at all.

Four months after our baby girl died I walked to the docks where his boat was tied up because he’d asked me to bring down his supper. He had too much repair work to do to come up to the cottage. He was in a foul mood and I could tell there was going to be trouble. He and his father had had another fight and I was going to be bearing the brunt of it if I didn’t leave.

So I said nothing, placed the covered iron skillet that held his dinner on an overturned crate, and turned to go. He grabbed my arm and twirled me back around and asked where the hell was I going. We were close to the railing and there were ropes and nets and pipes littering the deck and I started to slip on them. I tried to wrench my arm free to regain my balance, which made him begin to lose his. He raised his hand to hit me and I ducked and grabbed the skillet. I lifted it and then brought it around with all the strength I had. The pan connected with his head and he pitched backward and over the railing.

There was a splash as he hit the water. I looked over the side to see him under the surface holding his head, with ribbons of red swirling through his fingers. His eyes were scrunched shut, but as he realized where he was, he opened them wide and looked up at me. He shot one hand out of the water toward me—his fingers splayed like limbs on a sea star. I stood there and did nothing.

His eyes widened and he shot up the other hand, the one that had been holding his head. He surfaced for a second and tried to say my name, but he was struggling to tread water and his head was bleeding, turning the water red around him. And I stood and did nothing.

He began to drift downward, still looking at me, still reaching one hand toward me. He was losing consciousness, and I did nothing.

I did not save him.

I waited until I could not see him any longer. I wiped the skillet with the cover I had brought and replaced the sausages and potatoes that had fallen from it. Then I ran, yelling for help.

It came too late, of course. I told the other fishermen who came in answer to my cries that Colm had been drinking and had stumbled and fallen overboard. I had been coming to the boat with his dinner when I saw him fall, and I ran but I couldn’t get to him in time.