People always asked if I hated my father for murdering my mother in cold blood. I always said yes, without hesitation.

But my hatred was older than that lie; years of bruises, years of spit and laughter, and her quiet eyes turned away. His cruelty was expected; her silence was a choice. Killing him would have been a kindness. I wanted him caged, rotting, humiliated. My mother was the one who earned a harsher end. So I gave it to her and left his fingerprints on the knife. Now he waits for a needle, and I sleep well.