Page 57 of Grief & Glitter

“Yes.”

I sighed. “So apparently none.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Fuck therapists. I looked at the courtyard where a man in a dark coat walked slowly along the path with someone beside him. They stopped near a bench, talked for a moment, then kept going.

“I was fifteen. He was thirteen. I was supposed to look after him.”

“According to whom?”

I glanced at Dad. “Everyone.” That was an evasion. No one else wanted me to keep an eye on Ethan. It was only one person. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Dad shifted and looked destroyed. “Me. I told you to keep an eye on him.”

“You didn’t tell me to take him skating,” I defended my dad.

“No.”

“You didn’t tell me to let him go out onto thin ice.”

“No.”

“So, this isn’t yours.”

“I know that.”

“Then don’t take it.”

Dad’s eyes filled. “I’m not trying to.”

“Sounds like it.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I was his father.”

“And I was his brother.”

“I was his brother too,” Noah whispered.

There we were, three men trying to claim the same dead kid, as if whoever hurt most got to keep him.

Dr. Patel spoke quietly after we all sat still as stone. “What if nobody owns what happened?”

Nobody moved.

“What if Ethan’s death isn’t something one of you has to carry?”

I stared at the floor. That sounded too easy. Ten years of pain reduced to one fucking sentence.

“What happened to Ethan was a tragedy,” she continued. “Noah made a cruel and reckless mistake when he dared him. Gideon was unable to save him. Your father wasn’t there. Those are facts. But none of you made the ice break.”

My eyes burned. Beside me, Dad sniffled, and Noah cried silently. I didn’t. Not yet.

“Acceptance doesn’t mean saying what happened was okay,” Dr. Patel said. “It doesn’t mean Gideon has to forgive Noah today. It doesn’t mean Noah stops taking responsibility for his actions. It means accepting something none of you have been able to accept for ten years.” I knew what she was going to say, and I didn’t want her to. “Ethan died,” she finished.

I closed my eyes. There it was. Ethan died.

I’d spent ten years adding words after that. Ethan died because I hadn’t stopped him. Ethan died because I wasn’t fast enough. Ethan died because I should have known. Noah had his own reasons. Dad probably had a thousand. But stripped of all of them, there were only two words: Ethan died.