This wasn’t the first time. During his repeated drunken apologies that started when I turned ten—for giving me his bad genes—he’d finally told me he couldn’t stand the idea of my turning sixteen. So he drank to deal with it. If it sounded like an excuse, that’s because it was one. He’d been drunk every night since my mom was killed. For the record, that meant he had been trashed nearly every night for over fifteen years.