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His fucking son is gone, and he’s a damned ice man.
My mother is weeping.
As any mother would.
I always thought I wanted to have children. Ever since I was a little girl and played with dolls, mothering them—feeding them, diapering them, rocking them to sleep.
I wanted to have my own real live baby doll.
Now, as I watch my mother mourning her son, her baby doll, I rethink that.
It nearly killed her when Vincent left, but at least we know he’s alive. Or we can at least imagine that he is.
But Michael?
Michael is undeniably gone. His heart no longer beats. He’s dead.
The D word.
No mother should ever have to refer to her child with that word.
I won’t have children.
I won’t bring them into this world.
Then it occurs to me.
If they force me into marriage? I may not have a damned choice.
“I want to see him,” I say again.
“Savannah, I said no.” My father’s voice is still icy.
“You should at least let Mama see him.”
“I will not. Why would I want to put her through that?”
“Because maybe she won’t believe you. Maybe she won’t believe you unless she sees him with her own eyes.”
My father’s hand comes out then, and he strikes me across my cheek.
I drop my jaw, my hand going to my stinging cheek. I can feel it turning red now.
This is my father. A man who has never laid a hand on me my entire life.
“I’m sorry I had to do that,” he says, “but you gave me no choice, Savannah.”
“There’s always a choice, Daddy,” I say. “There’s always a choice.”
I’ve heard those words from somewhere, but at the moment I can’t remember where. Perhaps I read them in a book, heard them on a TV show or movie. Maybe in a class.
But they ring in my mind now.
There’s always a choice.
So I make a choice now.
I choose not to get entangled in this mess. Not to bring children into this family.
