I had a stepfather, and when he drank, he accused my mom of seeing other men, and then he’d hit her. And she’d just live with it. Never called the police, not once. Then one day, he beat her really bad and broke her nose. I was nine. He stormed out of the house, got in his car and drove off, my mom’s crying and I can’t help her, and then I hear his car. He’s turned back around. He kept a gun in the drawer near his bed. When he opened the door, I pulled the trigger. Then I pulled it again. And I can still see his face, almost daring me to finish. But I couldn’t. So they took him to the hospital and said that he couldn’t be saved, but he didn’t die. He recovered. Then one night, he just slipped away. We never saw him again. And I still blame myself, because I should’ve done it. I should’ve killed him. And I know that rationally, he is not responsible for all the bad things in the world, but he is responsible for some of them. And every year he sends me a card on my birthday, just to let me know that he’s still out there.