My First Love, My Last Revenge

se. He was my protector, my teacher, and my first love. Fo

led him, pregnant with our child, only

put him on speakerphone so I could hea

fun," he said. "She should

ed me. I got rid of our son, to

. In her place, I became "Nine," a r

ith "amnesia." When the police ask who will be my

a shy smile. "He's

pte

Bradl

don' t break. Mine did. It shattered into a million pieces th

sound of my father's heavy footsteps on the wooden floor was the first warning. Then came

on, not

to a drink in his

ers. Their words were a venomous tide, rising and falling, sometimes mur

d was a weapon. Crying was a

her, the sound a sharp crack in the already tense air. I let o

rcloud. "What are you crying for? This ha

idn't look at me. She just said, "Stop that

n the stairs, a small ghost in pajamas, and watch them tear each o

inting a trembling finger at me. "She d

llie wa

e different from mine. Her cries brought my parents running. Her tears were kisse

tle creature, and they adored her

ie in her crib, her face red, her mouth a perfect 'O' of distress. I watched her, mesmerized. She ha

she

Kallie into her arms. "Oh, my sweet baby, did the

orway behind her. "See, Jann

orm, a fragile truce declared. Neither of them saw m

argument wasn't even a shout. It was a cold, quiet conversation

e," my mother sai

my father shot back

eds her

, not one where her moth

tues, her needs, her future. My name was never mentioned. It was as if

ke from my throat. It was

heads snapp

e," my mother snappe

e words were stuck, a hard lump in my throat. I just po

ic," my father grum

into the kitchen, started to cry in

p. "Look what you've done, Johnston. You've upset her." She g

Kallie, at two, was deemed to need her mother. I, at seven, was old enough to

things and all of Kallie's things. The pink blankets, the stuffed animals,

es. She was leaving. She was taking the only source of light

slammed shut,

rd tearing from me. I ran d

ious oval. My mother's eyes met mine in the rearview mirror for a single,

p. She didn't

all legs pumping, my

ound of its engine faded, leaving only the so

a duffel bag in his hand. He didn

s voice devoid of any emotion. "I'm

e air smelled of manure and damp earth. My father's parents, whom I'

nally left him. Good riddance." She looked at my grandfather. "At least he kept the Bradley blood.

send money when I can. I have to get my life back on track." He looked at me through the op

gravel driveway with two strangers w

'd never liked my mother. They saw me as her lingering shadow, a burden the

ndmother one morning, my vo

low, calculating smile spread

in the basement. A mountain of my grandfather's and

as not a one-time task. "Don't think you're getting a free ride

washed clothes until my hands were raw, and served two bitter old people who saw