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instead of taking a damn pill and living? That I’ve beat myself up every day since because I knew how depressed she was, but I didn’t want to believe it? Is that what you wanna hear?”
    I gaped at my father, not knowing how to respond to his sudden outburst and the harshness of his words.
    “ Because it’s the truth… I blame myself every day. I pushed all the signs I noticed under the rug and forgot about them.” His red-rimmed eyes shifted to the countertop and became glassy. “And I… I miss her so much it hurts…”
    The raw emotion in his voice was unmistakable, and it stabbed at me like a knife through my heart. For the second time in a single evening my father surprised me, this time because he cried. His face had been blank and emotionless at the funeral and throughout these last five months, but now it was easy to see how tortured by my mother’s decision he’d been.
    “ I know,” I said, moving to stand closer. “Me, too.”
    “ So much…” he whispered through sobs. I felt tears sting the corners of my eyes. “People keep telling me it will get easier, but it won’t, Rowan,” he sobbed. “Not for me.”
    I tangled my arms around him, giving my father the hug I felt he desperately needed, turning this moment between us into another one I felt should be reversed, but wasn’t. We clung to each other, finally releasing our bottled-up sorrows. The sobs that came from some place deep inside of me felt strong enough to break me in half, but at the same time oddly freeing. Until my thoughts shifted to one buried by the moment… one which tainted my tears with even more pain.
    This wouldn’t be the final time my father cried over the loss of a loved one. He’d lose me, soon. I didn’t know how or exactly when, but I knew it was inevitable. I would contribute to this pain that had already swallowed my father whole, a realization that shattered my fragile heart.
    When I finally ripped myself from my father’s side and sauntered back to my room, exhaustion weighed down my every step, pulsating in each of my limbs. A dreamless sleep overtook me the moment my head touched my pillow.
    I woke the next morning, an hour before my alarm went off, and stared up at the textured popcorn ceiling, not yet ready to begin my day. I listened to the quite house surrounding me and wondered if Dad had already left for work.
    When the sun finally peeked up from the horizon, casting hues of orange and pink across the pale yellow walls of my room, I crawled out of bed and padded quietly to my window. Dad’s truck still sat in the driveway, parked at an odd angle. Either he was too hungover or too depressed to be around people today, maybe even a mixture of both.
    Dots of black near our mailbox caught my gaze. The crows had returned to taunt me for another day with their symbolism of impending death and transformation. I stared at them for a while, wondering if their growing numbers held any significance, because if so, then my time must be running out.
    I slipped on a red long-sleeved shirt, a pair of dark denim skinny jeans, and my brown Ugg boots before hesitantly leaving the comfort of my room. The house was still silent, but it didn’t mean Dad wasn’t up. After what had happened last night, I wasn’t sure how to behave around him this morning.
    When I stepped into the kitchen for a cinnamon sugar Pop Tart, dad sat at the counter with a glass of ice water clasped between his hands. I walked to the pantry, searching my mind for something to say besides a simple ‘Good Morning,’ because it wasn’t, not with the way things had gone last night. I hadn’t gone to bed angry with him, but for whatever reason, this morning I found anger rising to the surface of my mind. Seeing him sitting there like that, dazed, was seriously setting me off.
    The silence of the house pressed in on me, making my ears hyperaware of even the faintest sounds. My Pop Tart wrapper crinkling as I opened it sounded like thunder echoing