One night at that rented lakehouse, Emma and I sat alone together on the dock, stars scattered across the still water beneath us. Do you ever regret it, she asked. Regret what, I said. The Mercedes, she said. I took a long pause before answering. Sometimes I regret that it was necessary, I said. What’s the difference, she asked. I wish my family had been different, I said. I wish they had stood up for me instead. But they didn’t. So I stood up for myself instead. The regret is that they made me choose. Not that I chose. Do you miss them, she asked. The family you had. I miss who I thought they were, I said. Not who they actually turned out to be. That’s sad, she said. Yeah, I said. But I’m not sad anymore. What are you then, she asked. At peace, I told her.
My Nephew Smashed My $7,000 Gibson and Everyone Said “He’s Just a Child”—Then I Saw His Dad’s Mercedes Outside
