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“When you gave a house key to a rapist,” I say.
“I let you think you were special.”
Excuse me?
“You let me think I was special? When? When did I think I was special? When I was Emma’s age and became your co-parent? When I found out what a prostitute was, and that my mother was one and everyone knew? When you let him go? Do you think I thought I was special then?”
She throws the glass of clear alcohol against the wall, and it shatters behind my head. Then she storms across the room and leans down in front of the chair so that she’s inches from my face.
“That’s right,” she says. “I let you think you were special; this town let you think you were special, and you thought you were better than all of us. You ran around doing whatever the fuck you wanted and thought that wouldn’t ever catch up to you, and I should have taught you better. I should have taught you that you weren’t special, and then maybe I wouldn’t have had to listen to you cry about how sad and pathetic you think your life is and maybe this wouldn’t have happened to you, and you wouldn’t have had to learn like this.” She grips my chin forcefully before continuing. “Look at me now, honey. Take a real good fucking look because you’re looking in the fucking mirror. You aren’t better than me. You are me. Take your fucking payday and get the fuck out of here. This is as good as it’s going to get for you.”
“Fuck you,” I tell her, pushing her off me. She stumbles back and laughs as I storm up the staircase. I spot Emma peeking through a crack in her door; when we make eye contact, she pulls it closed. I turn into my bedroom, slam the door, and then I scream at the top of my lungs. I scream until my throat burns and nothing comes out anymore.
And then I sit there, feeling small and helpless and not special at all because I know I have no choice. And it hurts so much.
I don’t leave my room until the sun starts to set, but when I do, I go straight to the bathroom and rip that fucking sign off the wall. I take it out back and toss it into the fire pit, then do the same thing with that ridiculous fucking sign in the kitchen. I watch them burn and it’s almost satisfying, but not quite. I head back inside and start pulling pictures down from the walls and then toss them in, too. I’m pulling photo albums from the cabinet under the television when Emma comes out of her room.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Go to bed.”
“I’m not tired,” she says and begins descending the staircase. She follows me through the screen door out back and watches me throw the albums onto the fire. I add more lighter fluid and we watch as it shoots up in front of us.
“Cool,” she says. “Do you think we have marshmallows?”
“Yeah,” I tell her. “I think we do.”
“I’ll go get them.”
She emerges a couple of minutes later, a half-empty bag of marshmallows in her hand. I grab a couple of sticks from the yard and we roast them together over empty platitudes and photos that tell a different story—that tell a lie.
When the bag is empty and the flames have all but died out, I lie back in the grass, and Emma does the same. I take her hand in mine and look up at the stars, listening to the crackling of the embers and hoping that one of them will tell me there’s another way—that I don’t have to do this.
“Do you think you’ll be sad that you did it?” Emma asks, breaking the silence.
“…What?”
“Burned all the pictures.”
“Oh…that. No,” I tell her. “What about you? Are you mad at me for it?”
“I don’t know. It was kind of shitty, I guess. Something tells me this will make a better memory, though.”
I smile and shake my head. “Who are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean…you’re an old soul. That’s all. You’re grounded. That’s not a bad thing. Maybe you won’t get…confused like I did and think you’re too special, and you’ll be better off for it,” I scoff.
“But you are special,” she tells me. “Mom is wrong.”
“Well…thanks, kid. But…I’m really not.”
“Are you really going to leave?” she asks.
“I don’t think I have a choice,” I tell her. “Not any other good ones, anyway.”
“Who’s going to take care of me?” she asks.
