Chapter 2The Night Before the SATs

Dad came back first. He hadn’t smoked in years, but he sat there in silence, staring at the journal, chain-smoking. Dad loved coming up with "business ideas." They always failed. Money was always tight.

Pop-Pop was in the living room cursing out Nana. Nana sat at the table mumbling to herself. Mason locked himself in his room.

"She's gone, so she's gone! Why don't you just kill me too then?" Nana suddenly snapped back. "I'll beat the life out of you!" Pop-Pop grabbed his belt, but Dad stopped him.

Dad frowned, looking exhausted. "Dad, Mom, stop it. You're tired. Just rest." "Tired? You know I'm tired? I've been a slave to this family for decades! I haven't had a day off since I married you! Now she's dead and you blame me? How is it my fault? You didn't raise her right!"

Nana pushed Dad away, tears streaming down her face. "What good girl goes and jumps off a roof? Writing all this trash to curse me? I say good riddance! She deserved it!"

"Mom!" Dad was always a mama's boy. I think that was the first time he ever yelled at her. Immediately, his face crumbled into a begging expression. "Mom, she didn't curse you." "Harper was my daughter. She's gone now. We pushed her until she broke. Mom... I don't have a daughter anymore."

Dad buried his face in his hands and squatted down. The living room went quiet. I noticed for the first time how much gray was in Dad's hair. His back was bent. In my memory, he was always in a crisp suit, looking important, going to dinners, traveling everywhere. But they always told him I was bad.

I remember the time guests came over. Nana told me to cook. I was going to listen. But I looked up and saw Mason, only a year younger than me, playing video games on the couch. I refused. So, she took all the books and trinkets in my room, shredded them, and burned them in a metal bin.

We fought that day. She called me horrible names. I cried and fought back. I obviously lost. But after that, I never called her "Nana" again. She went to Dad. Said I was getting rebellious. That I was trying to fly away.

When Dad talked to me privately, he liked to show me the scars on his hands from his "hard work." He’d say, "Harper, you aren't small anymore. Why can't you just let your brother win? Dad works so hard out there, it's not easy. When will you grow up?"

I remember sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at his scars, crying, refusing to speak. I felt guilty. I was a burden. I was sorry for his pain. I thought I was too much. I wrote that in the diary too. I blamed myself for being immature. But I couldn't let go of the resentment, which made me feel even worse.

Dad must have read that part just now.

Nana wiped a tear. "Fine. I won't speak. But don't blame me. The cops said someone might have pushed her. It has nothing to do with me." She pushed herself up, her seventy-year-old body swaying.

Pop-Pop muttered, "You're the one who didn't watch the door. You let her out." Nana wanted to argue, but Pop-Pop slammed the door and left.

I wanted to check on Mason. I walked through his wall. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. His phone rang. It was Mom.

Mason picked up. Her voice came through the speaker. "Sweetie, I'm just driving your little brother to school. What's up?" Mom's voice was so gentle. But she wasn't my mom anymore. She was Mason's mom. And that new little brother's mom.