Then she starts praying.
By the end of the day, Dad is passed out on the sofa, and Mom has locked herself in her bedroom while I sit at the dining room table with a beer.
Alone.
Hating them both.
I spend the rest of the time wishing Becca was here, while imagining that she was and we were all happy, sharing stories and filling our stomachs with the perfect Thanksgiving meal.
That Caylee was with me, in her pretty sweater and jeans she dressed in today, with a smile instead of hurt in her gorgeous blue eyes.
I can’t keep doing this.
It’s destroying me.
Caylee doesn’t deserve this, and I’m a jerk for wanting her beautiful essence in my life for even a small time.
I guess I’m wishing for a miracle.
I gave up on God a long time ago, but as I take in the cross on the wall, and my father snoring on the sofa, I shake my head.
“God, if you can hear me, how about I get a break?Tell me what I need to do here.”I peel the label off the beer and then toss it onto the table angrily.“I was just a fucking little boy.How could I have stopped him?”
Anger covers the tears I feel rising, and I push the emotions right down deep.If I let them rise, they’ll consume me.
Standing, I head down the hall and knock on Mom’s door.“I’m leaving.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Mom.”
“I heard you,” she says, misery lining her voice.
“Fine.Bye,” I say and walk out the door, letting it bang closed.I check it’s locked, then stride down the path to my car.
Like I said, we don’t do Thanksgiving.
