I wait for him, text him, call him, pray, but there is no response. I imagine him walking the streets, hearing my voice ring out in his ears. He is wondering if he has it in him, too, the capacity for rage. If nature or nurture matters more; if he is doubly damned. Yes, I hated that racist father for belittling me. Yes, I hated the hospital for sticking by his side. I don’t know if that bled over into my ability to care for a patient. I can’t tell you that for a moment, it didn’t cross my mind. That I didn’t look down at that innocent baby and think of the monster he would grow up to be. Does that make me the villain here? Or does that just make me human? And Kennedy. What I said wasn’t in my mind, it was in my heart. I do not regret a syllable. Every time I think about what it felt like to be the one who walked out of that room—who had that privilege, for once—I feel dizzy, like I’m flying. When I hear steps outside, I fly to the door and open it, but it is not my son—just my sister.
What do You think about Small Great Things (2016)?
