June 30, 1999

  Mother finally told Father to go easy on me.

  She would regret that.

  The beatings stopped—for me.

  They started for her.

  And I wasn’t sad.

  I wasn’t angry.

  I was… satisfied.

  She needed to feel what I’d felt.

  Father was asleep on the couch.

  Mother was in the bath.

  I was in the kitchen, staring at his switchblade.

  I wondered what would happen if I pressed it to his neck and flicked it open.

  Would he scream?

  Would he fight?

  Would he finally look at me?

  “Mother will be relieved,” I told myself.

  “She loves me. She’ll understand.”

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  I walked over to him, slow and curious.

  Rested the blade against his throat.

  Flicked it open.

  Blood spilled fast.

  It soaked his white shirt like juice on paper towels.

  He opened his eyes.

  Didn’t move.

  Didn’t speak.

  Didn’t even blink.

  The disappointment burned hotter than anything he’d ever done to me.

  I left him there.

  Went to the bathroom.

  Mother was soaking in the tub, earbuds in, eyes closed.

  I pulled one out.

  She blinked up at me.

  “Peter… what’s on your shirt?”

  I smiled.

  “Get dressed, Mother. I have a birthday gift for you.”

  She came out a minute later, towel wrapped around her hair.

  She stopped when she saw Father—propped upright, slumped, silent.

  A party hat on his head.

  “Happy birthday, Mother.”

  I stepped forward to hug her.

  She shoved me back.

  Her face twisted—rage, disbelief, something ugly.

  “What is wrong with you? Did you do this?”

  “Are you not pleased?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  She grabbed the phone.

  Dialed three numbers.

  “Stay right there,” she snapped. “Your father was right. You were a mistake.”

  That word—mistake—echoed.

  I walked toward her.

  She didn’t turn in time.

  She didn’t hear me.

  Her back was turned.

  I picked up the knife from the counter.

  It felt light. Easy.

  I pushed it into her back.

  She gasped. Dropped the phone.

  I watched it bounce once, then slide under the table.

  “You left me no choice, Mother.”

  She turned. Her face was wrong—surprised, not sorry.

  She grabbed me. Slammed me to the floor.

  I didn’t drop the knife.

  I drove it into her leg.

  She made a sound. Not a scream. Just… air.

  Then she collapsed on top of me. The knife slipped from my hand.

  Her fingers found my throat.

  She squeezed.

  I scratched her arms.

  She didn’t stop.

  The room got smaller.

  Colors faded.

  Then—

  Her grip loosened.

  She slumped.

  I pushed her off.

  Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t in them anymore.

  The struggle wasn’t graceful.

  It wasn’t cinematic.

  It was desperate—hers, not mine.

  When it was over, the house was quiet again.

  I arranged them side by side.

  Placed party hats on both.

  Found a cupcake in the fridge.

  Pushed a candle into the frosting.

  I lit it.

  “Happy birthday, Mother.”

  I blew out the candle.

  Made a wish.

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