« You don’t have to stay, » he’d tell me while we watched the evening news together.
« I want to, » I’d always reply.
And I meant it, because Grandpa never treated me like a burden or made me feel as if I owed him.
I wish I could say the same about the others.
They never let go of what happened.
« You don’t have to stay. »
I was told that our parents died when I was two years old, strapped into my car seat. A truck ran a red light, causing the accident. I lived. Our parents didn’t.
That was enough for them.
My siblings never said it outright, but it hung in the air. In the way they looked at me.
And sometimes… they did say it.
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