We can’t keep lying to ourselves.
And if they won’t stop, then it’s over to me.
I’ve paid for Dad to have therapy, and he won’t go.Mom doesn’t help with herthose fucking shrinks make things worsecomments.
Christ.
She’s just as complicit.Mom was the adult in those days and let him take us kids in the car while drunk.She never took me back to the cops and told them I lied.
She never told anyone that he was guilty.
Mom knew.
She has let me carry the burden for the rest of my life, manipulating me with all her comments about the shame we have as a family.How I can’t tell a soul.
Well, fuck that.
That’s not love.
Maybe I don’t know what love is, but as I gaze down at the woman on my chest and tighten my arms around her, I think this might be fucking close.
I would die for her.
I wouldn’t shame her or manipulate her.
I want her to know she’s safe and can rely on me.
I just don’t know how to stop getting in the car and making sure my father doesn’t kill someone else.How to say no to my mother when she calls, telling me that I have to help that damn drunk.
I don’t know how to do both.
Brrrbb, brrrbbb, brrrbbb.
Unfucking-believable.I lean forward despite the fact I know who is calling, trying not to disturb Caylee.
Brrr, brrr, brrr.
Vibrating on the glass, it makes a lot of noise, so I nudge it with my foot, which makes it worse.
Caylee stirs.
Fuck.
I run my hand over her hair, willing the phone to go silent while fighting the urge to answer it.Dad is out there drunk.It’s my job to help him.To stop him getting in the car.To protect anyone from getting killed.
Like he killed Becca.
The phone finally stops.
The relief I was expecting doesn’t come.Caylee is safe, but I’ve let my family down.
Someone could die.
Heart thumping, my muscles tense, I realize I’m at a crossroads in life.
Caylee.
Or my family.
