Good thing there was at least one kind of constant in my life. * * * All lights were turned off when I arrived home. I figured my mom and Michael were getting ready for bed, so I entered quietly. Careful not to make too much noise as I took off my shoes and deposited my keys on the nearest surface. Michael's door was closed all the way, but the little blue light seeping through the crack under his door - courtesy of his shark night light - told me he was sleeping. My feet stayed rooted to the floor when I finished ascending the stairs. Much to my surprise, my mom's room was ajar and I could just make out her silhouette, moving across the room. I headed for her door and gently popped my head through. The door creaked. "Hi," I hushed, smiling. She paused amidst of releasing her hair from the top knot she had it in. Mom chuckled lowly, her voice tired. "Hey, sweetheart. Almost scared me there." I closed the door shut and padded to her vanity, leaning against it with my cocked hip. "How was work?" A rough exhale escaped her lips and she rolled her eyes as she began tying the knot on her pink bathrobe. "Long." "Tell me about it." "Hah." She reclined back against the propped pillows and I noticed that she sat down at the exact same spot where my dad used to sleep. I stopped breathing. "For starters, I took Tiffany Rinaldi's shift - again - so I'm very exhausted, and now she's presented me with a new problem." I wasn't paying attention. My eyes followed the movement of her fingers as she absentmindedly drew a pattern on my father's favorite black comforter set. It felt like there was a rock lodged in my throat, preventing me from swallowing. My mother kept talking, her eyes dancing animatedly, but I wasn't paying attention. Blood rushed to my face. With anger or extreme embarrassment, I didn't know. But the photo frame next to her hip, the one that carried a picture of my parent's wedding day, nineteen years ago, haunted me. I couldn't breathe with the guilt climbing up and seizing my windpipes in a vice-like grip. "-And she asked if her son could come live with us. Of course, he'd pay rent for the few weeks, but I feel terrible asking an eighteen year old money to even start with." Tears were filling my eyes and making my vision blurry. "Anna?" My mom's voice cut through another one of my self-loathing episodes. I sniffled then swiftly laughed forcedly, trying to play of my lack of attention as zoning out. "Sorry, mom. Who's son?" I blinked quickly to dry out my tears before they fell. Mom watched me with a skeptical look. "Tiffany's son. He's going to be living with us for three weeks - maybe more, if her trip gets extended." I couldn't care less about Tiffany's son. What I cared about was the happy couple pictured dancing during their wedding reception. A happy couple who's happy ending I ruined with my selfish actions. My head hurt. As I looked around my mom's - no, my parents' room - I was ridden with a tremendous amount of disgust. Disgust aimed at myself. There were pictures everywhere and all sorts of reminders of my father. His favorite freshener scent lingered in the air, his stupid, stupid massage chair that'd been broken for years but he claimed still worked like a charm, and his most-loved game of chess was decorated on a small table perched beside the TV. My hand knocked against the accessories on my mom's vanity and I was mortified at the sight of a half-filled bottle of his favorite cologne. The one I'd gotten him two years ago as a birthday gift. My head wasn't just hurting, it was spinning now. I pushed away from the table, scampering towards the door - my exit, my escape from this nightmare. A nightmare I wish I could just wake up from. As if one day I'd finally jerk awake, realizing that it was just a bad dream. My dad would be downstairs sipping his coffee, my mom cooking and Michael playing outside. But it wasn't a dream. It was real. And the truth? I couldn't reverse the clocks and go back in time to stop myself from making the biggest mistake of my life. My mom's stern tone cut through again, abruptly halting me in my steps. So close. So close to my escape. "Anna, where are you going ? What is wrong with you?" I turned around to face the consequence of my actions. What is wrong with me? What's wrong is that my mind is hurting, my heart is aching and my soul is breaking from the overwhelming amount of darkness and guilt that's trapped inside of me. I'm an ugly mess. Once again, I was proven to be selfish when I couldn't look my mother square in the eyes. She was cradling the frame to her heart like it was her lifeline, genuinely confused as to why I was acting like this. It made the wound rip deeper. It made me madder. Sadder. Why couldn't she yell and curse at me? I took away her lifeline. Shakily, my hand latched onto the doorknob and I pulled at it. "I-I'm s-sorry, Mommy. So sorry." I was choking, tears brimming my waterline again. A grave look settled on her face as she understood what I meant. The worry lines on her face deepened and she pressed her lips in a tight grim line, pushing her brown waves aside. "It wasn't your fault," The echoed words, void of any emotions, failed to ease my conscious. Salt was being rubbed in my wounds. "None of it was, Jodie." Jodie. Dad used to call me that. My heart clenched in wrenching pain. I was out of the room before she could finish, running back to my sanctuary like the coward I was. Constantly running, running, running. I changed furiously and dropped my clothes carelessly on the floor, before throwing myself onto ,y bed and burying my face in the covers. I soaked my pillows with silent tears that night. Because while my mom may have forgiven me for what I did, I hadn't. His death was on me.