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When I tried to get sober we moved in together again. Soon enough I was stealing weed from him and playing his XBOX in the basement all day instead of working. When he came home at night I wrote noise music upstairs.

On my fourth birthday Mrs. Wilson invited me upstairs to her bedroom to give me a present. I had never been upstairs before. It felt different, quiet. She brought me into the room and pointed to the bed. There were two items on the comforter. One was an action book with rub on characters, Duke of Hazard was a favorite show of mine at that time and there were Bo and Luke and Daisy, Uncle Klansman or whatever his name was. Next to the book was a paddle, like for spanking.

Mrs. Wilson asked me which gift I thought I deserved. I froze. I thought of all the times I had shit myself in her living room. I thought of how I had tried to smother Hot Wheels, my rabbit. I thought of how my father left me and my mother was an inconsistent and terrifying drunk. I said, “I don’t know.” She reassured me that was fine and said to take both. I never looked at Mrs. Wilson the same again. She became something else than a kind caretaker. She had offered me a trap, and then let me go with it, as baggage.

Tim learned his lesson after about four more years. His mom died the other day. I wanted to reach out to tell him I’m sorry. But, am I? Sometimes it might be better to be honest at last. Tim, I might have cared at some point, I know I did. But, the changes I