All my life, I’ve felt this weight of having to produce enough to keep everyone alive. Brothers, sisters, partners, children—it all fell to me, and not just the working and the earning, but the sucking up, the pleasing, the remembering of birthdays and the names of everyone’s spouses, like a car salesman.

I considered moving away, across the river, into the city, upstate, out of the country, somewhere anonymous. It’s not that I want to let go. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll know for sure that no one noticed; no one held on, trying to keep me close. If I start a life in another place, would I be able to make up for the loss of what I’ve held on to so tightly?

My daddy, he beat us with his belt every day when he came home from work.

He’d say, “All right, let’s get this over with. I know you two done something awful today.”

Then he’d take us into the spare room and slip his belt off in one motion.

“Take them pants down,” he’d say, and we would.

Mama didn’t stop it till we reached puberty, but by then it was already too late.

My brother, he turned sour and went on drugs. He wanted nothing so much as to be loved by Daddy. And me? I worked hard at being good, at not getting caught at anything. I became a chronic truth-teller, spilling everything as soon as I thought I was suspected of anything. I got over that later and started not saying anything at all. Mostly, I turned myself into a savior of others.

I joined the army and when I got out, I went into the police department and then into health care. It still burns me to see someone come in to the ER hurt and beat up. I know what that means.

One night, this old woman came in. Her middle-aged daughter was with her and they were calling another daughter on the phone. When the second one arrived with her husband, the mother went nuts, screaming and carrying on. She tore into the second one like she was the devil hisself; and the husband, he just stood there and watched. So did the other daughter, the sister. I just wanted to tell them all to shut the hell up. The doctor came in and the mother settled down a bit.

The screamed-at daughter, though—looking real sorry—just stood there, like she was frozen to the spot. I knew her. I knew her. I went right on working and felt the heat on my neck, like I should have done something, like it was my responsibility.

Come sun up tomorrow, I’ll go to work, just as always, even though I don't have to. I could retire if I wanted to—but I won’t.