A Tale of Love and Loss

PROLOGUE "I don't want him." "Stop yelling at him—he's just a child. Your child," Mother sobbed. It was always like this when Dad was drunk. He'd yell at me, curse me, and remind me that I wasn't worth the dreams he had to give up. But he had already given them up. "A child? Miranda, you call him a child? Look at him. He's a curse. He caused my accident." "We both know you were drunk. Don't start again. You ran into the road," Mom sighed. I could hear the weariness in her voice. This was our routine—a bad day, a bottle of alcohol, and the same accusations, day after day. "I was going to pick him up. He was in a fight," she added softly. "You're his father. Is it not your job to protect him?" I wondered why Miranda stayed. My father and I—we didn't deserve her kindness. She had found me that day. Bruised, bloodied. That same day, Dad had his accident because of me. I knew it was my fault. Henry had pushed him into the road, and Dad had been too drunk to defend himself. I don't know if I hated Henry then. Maybe I should have. "Why don't you support me?" Dad's voice softened, the anger curdling into something colder. "We are planning a family of our own. We could give him away and start fresh—you, me, and our daughter." He always waited until I was there to say these things. He wanted me to hear how much he didn't want me. I sat quietly in my corner, hugging my knees. At thirteen, I was still a child, but I felt much older. I kept my mouth shut. I always did. I was expected to. The cramped corner dug into my ribs, but leaving would mean drawing attention. I didn’t want his attention. "We could send him to his mother. Alicia is well now—she's out of rehab." "This is Alicia I've never seen," Miranda shot back. "You want to give him to a woman he doesn't even know? Robert, I cannot entrust my child to a stranger. I don’t think Jonathan even knows her." The mention of my name made his head snap toward me. My stomach knotted. This was when it turned ugly. I braced for the blow, but it never came. He just stared at me, his face twisted with disgust, and walked away. I exhaled shakily. I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath. "You can come out now. I'm sorry you had to hear that again," Miranda said softly, offering me her hand. I took it, wincing as my battered leg protested. "Let me clean your wounds and get you something to eat. You're a good boy, Jonathan. Never doubt that." I followed her wordlessly. It didn't matter what I said. My voice never did. I flinched when the antiseptic burned my skin, but not when she wiped the blood away. Father had done worse, and I had learned to endure it. "I just wish you'd run away," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "When I'm not here, don't let him hurt you. You endure so much, more than any boy should." I stared past her, at the cracked wall behind her head. I wasn’t a good boy. Only Miranda thought so. We ate dinner together, just the two of us. She tucked me into bed after giving me something to dull the pain. Her baby kicked beneath her hand, and she smiled at me. "She'll be your sister," she said softly. "Her name will be Ariel. She's a miracle." I wanted to believe her. "Sleep well, sweet boy. Tomorrow will be better." But tomorrow wasn’t better. I woke to the sound of shouting. My body ached, but I dragged myself to the hallway. It was always like this when Dad was drunk, but something felt different. Worse. "No more fighting, Robert. Please. No more," Miranda's voice trembled. I froze when I saw it happen. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. Dad swung blindly. She tried to hold him back, but he grabbed a metal rod from the floor. I wanted to scream, to stop him. But my legs wouldn't move. My voice was gone. And then— The sickening c***k echoed through the night. Her body crumpled to the ground. The other men scattered. And my father? He ran. I didn't. I stumbled to her side, my heart hammering in my chest. Blood. So much blood. It spilled from the wound on her head, warm against my trembling hands. I called her name. Again and again. But she didn’t open her eyes. "Help," I choked out, my voice shaking. "Please, someone help." No one came. I stayed with her. I held her hand as the night faded into morning. Her fingers grew cold, but I refused to let go. She had always held me when I needed her. I wouldn’t leave her alone. When the neighbors finally arrived, I was still there, still holding her hand. I couldn't leave her.