The moment I’m in my room, I trudge to the bathroom. I stare at my reflection, contemplating my options. My face is smeared with blood and tears that I hadn’t known were escaping. This seems to be a recurring problem lately, these leaky eyes of mine.
I can still hear Wade’s fists, wet thuds landing on my uncle’s face. The sloshing sounds of the flesh and blood echo in my ears and make my bile rise again. That’s my family. My only family. I may not have forgiven him yet, but we share blood and memories. Memories of my parents and birthdays that I could never speak about out loud.
I have had Samuel, and though he is giving and kind to me, he isn’t my father, and he isn’t my uncle. He is the man who saved me and trained me. He never tucked me in or sang me happy birthday. He didn’t make me
