Page 35 of Ashes of Saints

My grandmother’s words come back to me.

This can make you a good man or a bad man, Parker. You get to decide.

I didn’t get to decide, Grandma. I had no choice.

You’ll understand one day. I’m sorry I didn’t find out what your father was doing sooner.

Grandma isn’t a hugger, but she patted my knee, giving me a pitiful smile before leaving me in my room. It was one of the last nights I spent in my childhood bedroom.

Years later, my mother gave birth to my little brother, Michael. I barely know him. I don’t want to know him. The few times I’ve seen him, he’s watched me with big eyes, wanting to be like me.

What a joke.

There are two scenarios. One, Dad had the chance to abuse him before he died, and I have to live with that. Or he didn’t, and I have to pretend the guy was a saint and his death a great loss to both of us.

Fuck that.

If he was protected by my mother while I wasn’t, I’m not going to pretend I don’t hate them both for it.

Just as I do Aurora.

Then again, if Michael was interfered with, I’ll be even more angry at my parents for harming another innocent fucking child.

I just can’t be the big brother he wants.

I’m dealing with my own mortality.

I know what her message is inquiring about. It’s Michael’s birthday in a few weeks—his sweet sixteenth—and she wants me to attend.

My dear mother, who lives with her head in the sand and won’t acknowledge what happened to me. Not even to say sorry. She acts as if she isn’t responsible for the disgusting acts that were done to me.

Her love for Michael is likely a result of losing me and her husband, but it triggers me.

He’s following you on social media, Parker. He adores you.

Yeah, he likes every fucking post. But how can he adore me if he doesn’t know me? Tell him to get a life.

Every post. Every Instagram post. Every tweet. Every Facebook. Basically, every platform I’m on Michael-Stone-R likes every goddamn thing I post.

If you spent time with him, he’d know you. Without your father, he needs a male role model in his life.

That man was not a role model. As a result, neither am I. Get him a babysitter.

That was three months ago when she told me to pencil his birthday into my calendar.

I said no.

Between her and my grandmother, who keep hounding me to connect with Michael, I am considering blocking their fucking numbers. But I owe my grandmother my life. And in some sick way, I enjoy listening to my mother plead.

I used to think it was her unconditional love for her two sons that kept her trying to connect us. Then I realized she hadn’t told Michael what happened to me and it’s easier to face my harsh replies than the truth.

Well, fuck her.

My mind follows the yellow brick road back to Mary-Anne, Aurora’s mother. I wonder if the two women knew each other.

“Shit.” I sit up straight and tap the keyboard.

What day is the funeral?

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