He hits the casino. Wins. Buys presents for my sister and their son.
Climbing into the spare room bed with me, he starts roughly rubbing my shoulders, stretching out my skull t-shirt. Grunting, to the point of having to “finish himself off” in the shower. My small nephew, steps away, door open, baby sleeps in little skull pajamas.
(My nephew, his teacher told me, has an extraordinarily kind heart.)
I tell myself I am doing the right thing. Choosing to drown, to save a kind-hearted boy.
That I can wash my shirt. Somehow leave.
And that luck eventually runs out.
Another 100 words for Tara.