“Youkilledhimyoukilledhimyoukilledhim.” She was a broken record player, and her life was one big run on sentence. No periods, commas, nothing to break her endless pain, “mydavidmypoorpoorbaby,” not even a space.

Sometimes I wonder if I pulled the trigger hoping to hit David. I wonder if I had tried to kill him, and my mother was my accomplice. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I was trying to shoot my mother, hoping that maybe it would make her realize that I was there, locked up, a princess waiting for someone to rescue her. I wonder these things a lot, because that’s all I know.

Now I’m pregnant with my first child. The doctors say it’s a boy, and David and I already decided on a name—David. It was David’s father and grandfather’s name, so it was only appropriate. I was elated.

Finally, I’m getting David back.