I was sleeping in the basement when I heard my dad loading his gun upstairs, and mom started screaming. The metallic click click of the shotgun chamber echoed through the floorboards above my head, cutting through my dream like a blade. I’d been sleeping in the basement for 3 weeks now, ever since the arguments got so bad that staying in my old bedroom meant listening to them destroy each other every night.

 Down here, surrounded by dad’s old hunting gear and mom’s forgotten craft supplies, I could usually pretend our family wasn’t imploding. But that sound, the unmistakable rack of a shell entering the chamber, snapped me awake with ice flooding my veins. Mom’s scream followed immediately.

 Not a horror movie scream, but something worse. Raw and animal. The sound of someone who’d just realized they were about to die. I threw off the sleeping bag and stumbled toward the stairs. My 17-year-old body still clumsy with sleep and adrenaline. The basement stairs groaned under my feet as I took them two at a time, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.

above me. Mom was still screaming, her words incoherent, just pure terror pouring out of her. “Dad!” I shouted, bursting through the basement door into the kitchen. “Dad, what are you doing?” he was standing in the living room doorway. The Remington 870 held low across his body, not pointing at anything yet, but ready.

 His face was wrong, not angry like I’d expected, but eerily calm, empty, like someone had scooped out everything that made him my father, and left just this hollow shell holding a weapon. Mom was backed against the far wall near the stairs, her hands up in front of her face, mascara streaking down her cheeks. She was wearing her work clothes still, that blue blazer she wore to the real estate office, which meant she’d just gotten home.

 “Stay back, Carter,” Dad said without looking at me. His voice was flat, conversational, like he was telling me dinner was ready. “This doesn’t concern you.” “The hell it doesn’t.” I moved into the living room, keeping my hands visible, trying to remember everything I’d learned in that active shooter drill at school last year. Keep calm.

 Don’t make sudden movements. Look for exits. But this wasn’t some random gunman. This was my father. The man who taught me to ride a bike and throw a curveball. The man who’d coached my little league team and built me a treehouse when I was eight. Dad, put the gun down. Whatever’s going on, we can talk about it. Talk. Dad laughed, but it came out bitter and broken. We’re way past talking, son.

Your mother made sure of that. He shifted his grip on the shotgun, and mom made a small whimpering sound. Didn’t you, Linda? Want to tell Carter what you’ve been doing? where you’ve been every late night for the past 6 months. Mom’s eyes found mine, desperate and pleading. Carter, baby, please go back downstairs.

 This is between me and your father. Like hell, I’m leaving. I took another step closer to Dad. Close enough now that I could see his hands trembling on the gun. Dad, you’re scaring me. You’re scaring both of us. Just put the gun down and we’ll figure this out. Figure it out. Dad’s voice rose for the first time, cracking with emotion. There’s nothing to figure out.

 Your mother’s been [ __ ] her boss for 6 months. 6 months, Carter. While I was working double shifts at the plant while I was trying to keep this family afloat, she was spreading her legs for Richard [ __ ] Brennan in his fancy corner office. The words hit me like a fist. I looked at mom waiting for her to deny it to say dad was crazy or drunk or having some kind of breakdown, but she just stood there crying, her silence confirming everything. Richard Brennan.

I knew that name. He was the owner of the real estate company where mom worked. The guy who drove a Tesla and wore suits that probably cost more than our monthly mortgage. Mom. My voice came out small, childish. I’m sorry, she whispered. I’m so sorry, baby. I never meant for you to find out like this. Find out? I felt something inside me start to crack.

 You never meant for me to find out at all. You were just going to keep lying. Keep pretending everything was fine while you I couldn’t finish the sentence. The betrayal was too big, too overwhelming. Dad might be the one holding the gun, but mom had detonated a bomb that destroyed everything first. Dad’s face twisted with something that looked like vindication.

 See, even your son knows what you are. A liar. a cheater, a [ __ ] who destroyed this family for a man with money. “Don’t call her that,” I said automatically, even though part of me agreed with him. “Dad, she messed up. She messed up bad. But you can’t. You can’t do this. Whatever you’re thinking about doing, it’s not worth it.

 Not worth it.” Dad finally looked at me and I saw tears streaming down his face. I gave her everything. 20 years of marriage. I worked myself to the bone at that factory, breathing in chemicals and throwing out my back so she could have nice things, so you could have a good life.

 and this is what I get? replaced by some rich [ __ ] who probably doesn’t even know her middle name. It wasn’t like that, Mom said, her voice stronger now. Alan, please let me explain. It wasn’t about money. It was about what? Dad swung the shotgun toward her and I lunged forward, grabbing his arm. The weapon went off with a deafening boom that made my ears ring.

The shot punching a hole in the ceiling above mom’s head. Plaster dust rained down on all of us, and for a second, nobody moved. Everybody frozen in shock. Then everything happened at once. Mom bolted for the front door, her heels clattering on the hardwood. Dad tried to shake me off, but I held on, my fingers digging into his forearm, using every ounce of strength I had.

 We crashed into the coffee table, sent it skidding across the floor. The shotgun clattered away, spinning across the hardwood toward the kitchen, I scrambled after it, my hands closing around the barrel just as Dad grabbed my ankle. “Let go!” he growled, dragging me backward. “Let go, Carter. This has to end. Not like this.

” I kicked at his face with my free foot connected with his jaw. He grunted and his grip loosened enough for me to pull free. I got to my feet with the shotgun in my hands, my whole body shaking, and pointed it at my own father. “Stay back. Stay the [ __ ] back, Dad.” He froze, staring at me with something like betrayal in his eyes. “You’re choosing her after what she did.

I’m not choosing anyone. I’m choosing not to let you commit murder in our living room.” My voice was steadier than I felt. Mom, I shouted toward the front door. “Call 911 now.” I could hear mom on the phone outside, her voice high and frantic as she gave our address to the dispatcher.

 Dad sat back on his heels, his shoulders slumping, and suddenly he just looked old, defeated. The rage that had been holding him up seemed to drain away, leaving just this broken man kneeling on his living room floor. “You don’t understand,” he said quietly. “You can’t understand what it’s like to give someone your whole life and have them throw it away like garbage.

” “You’re right. I don’t understand.” I kept the gun trained on him, even though my arms were getting tired. But I understand that killing mom wasn’t going to fix anything. It was just going to destroy what’s left of this family and put you in prison for the rest of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong.

 Dad’s voice was hollow. Maybe prison’s better than living in a house with a woman who doesn’t love me anymore. The sirens were getting closer now. Their whale cutting through the suburban quiet of our neighborhood. I could see lights starting to come on in nearby houses. Neighbors peering through windows to see what the commotion was.

 In a few minutes, the police would be here and everything would change. Dad would be arrested. Mom would probably get a restraining order. I’d be left to figure out which parent I was supposed to live with, which one I was supposed to forgive. “Did you love him?” Dad asked suddenly, looking past me toward where mom was visible through the front window.

 “Did you actually love Richard, or was it just the money and the excitement?” Mom stepped back inside, her phone still clutched in her hand. The sirens were right outside now, red and blue lights washing through the windows. She looked at Dad for a long moment before answering. “I don’t know. Maybe. Does it matter?” “Yeah,” Dad said. It matters to me.

 The police kicked in the front door even though it was unlocked. Three officers with guns drawn shouting commands I barely processed. Someone yanked the shotgun out of my hands while another officer shoved me face down on the floor, a knee pressing into my back. I tried to explain that I was the one who’ stopped Dad, that I wasn’t a threat, but they weren’t listening.

 Standard procedure, one of them said later. Active shooter call means everyone gets treated as a potential threat until they sort things out. They cuffed dad and dragged him outside. Through the window, I could see him being shoved into the back of a patrol car, his head hitting the doorframe hard enough to leave a mark. Mom was standing on the lawn talking to an officer, gesturing frantically, probably explaining what had happened.

Other neighbors had come outside now, standing in clusters in their driveways, phones out, recording everything. Our family’s destruction was going to be entertainment for the whole neighborhood. An officer helped me up and removed the cuffs once they’d confirmed I was the son, the one who’d called 911 through his mother.

 He was older, maybe late 40s, with graying hair and kind eyes that had seen too much. You okay, son? No. The word came out before I could stop it. No, I’m not okay. Nothing’s okay. You did the right thing. Stopping your father, making sure nobody got hurt. That took guts. He guided me to the couch, moved the overturned coffee table out of the way.

Paramedics are going to check you out, make sure you don’t have any injuries. Then we’re going to need a statement about what happened here tonight. I gave them the whole story, start to finish. How I’d been sleeping in the basement because of the fighting. How I’d heard the shotgun being loaded.

 How Dad had confronted mom about the affair, the gun going off, the struggle, me taking the weapon and holding Dad until police arrived. The detective taking notes looked up sharply when I mentioned Richard Brennan’s name. Your mother was having an affair with Richard Brennan, the real estate developer. That’s what dad said. Mom didn’t deny it.

 The detective exchanged a look with his partner. That’s interesting. We’ve been investigating Brennan for fraud. Multiple complaints about properties being misrepresented. Money disappearing from escrow accounts. Your mother worked closely with him. Ice formed in my stomach. She’s his office manager. She handles all the paperwork and finances for the company.

 We’re going to need to talk to her more extensively then. Not tonight. Tonight she’s a domestic violence victim and witness. But soon. The detective closed his notebook. Your father’s going to be charged with attempted murder, reckless endangerment, and a few other things. Given the circumstances, he’ll probably be denied bail.

 What circumstances? The affair? The premeditation of loading the gun before your mother got home. The fact that he fired at her. This wasn’t a heat of passion situation. This was planned. The detective’s face softened slightly. I’m sorry, kid. I know this is a lot to process. Is there somewhere you can stay tonight? Relatives, friends.

 My aunt lives about 20 minutes away. Dad’s sister. Though I wasn’t sure she’d want anything to do with us after this. The Hol family had just imploded in spectacular fashion, and everyone was going to take sides. Mom came back inside once the police finished with her initial statement. Her makeup was completely destroyed now.

 Black streaks down her face, her eyes swollen from crying. She reached for me and I stepped back instinctively. Her hand dropped, hurt flashing across her face. Carter, please. I know you’re angry with me, but we need to stick together right now. Stick together? I laughed, but it came out bitter and wrong.

 You destroyed this family. You cheated on dad for 6 months, and when he found out, he tried to kill you. And now I find out the guy you were sleeping with is under investigation for fraud. What else have you been lying about, Mom? I didn’t know about the fraud. I swear, Carter. Richard told me he loved me.

 That he wanted to leave his wife and we could start over together. I believed him. Did you believe him while you were screwing him in his office while dad was working doubles? The words felt like weapons and I wanted them to hurt because I was hurting and I needed her to feel it, too. Mom flinched like I’d slapped her.

 You don’t understand what it’s like being married to someone who stopped seeing you years ago. Your father and I, we’ve been dead inside for a long time. Richard made me feel alive again, so that makes it okay. That makes lying and cheating acceptable because you weren’t happy. I grabbed my jacket from the back of the couch.

 I’m going to Aunt Julie’s. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Carter, wait. But I was already walking out the door, past the police cars and the neighbors and the aftermath of everything falling apart. I called my aunt from the sidewalk and she answered on the second ring, her voice already tight with worry.

 Someone had called her, told her about the police at our house. “Is it true?” she asked. “Did Alan really try to shoot Linda?” “Yeah, it’s true. Can I stay with you for a while? I can’t be in that house right now. Of course, I’m coming to get you. Stay where the police can see you, okay? Just stay safe.

 She picked me up 15 minutes later and we drove in silence back to her house across town. Aunt Julie had never married, lived alone in a small house with two cats and a garden. She was obsessive about maintaining. She made me tea I didn’t drink and sat across from me at her kitchen table waiting for me to talk. “Dad’s going to prison,” I said finally.

“And mom’s probably going to get arrested, too, if she’s involved in whatever fraud thing her boss was running.” Linda never had good judgment about men, Aunt Julie said carefully. Allan was the best thing that ever happened to her and she threw it away. But your father, she paused, choosing words.

 What Alan did tonight is unforgivable. I love my brother, but holding a gun on his wife, firing it near her head, that’s not a man anymore. That’s a monster. He was hurting. I felt obligated to defend him, even though I agreed with her. She destroyed him. Pain doesn’t excuse violence, Carter. Lots of people get cheated on, and they don’t load shotguns. They get therapy.

 They get divorced. They move on. Your father chose to try to kill your mother. That’s on him, not her. We sat in silence for a while. The clock on the wall ticking away. Seconds of my old life disappearing. Everything I’d known, family dinners, weekend barbecues, stupid arguments about whose turn it was to do dishes, all of it was gone, replaced by this new reality where my father was an attempted murderer and my mother was an adulterer, possibly involved in fraud.

 My phone buzzed with a text from my best friend, Dylan. Dude, I just saw police at your house on someone’s Snapchat. What happened? Are you okay? I didn’t respond. Couldn’t figure out how to explain that my family had just self-destructed and everyone with a phone had probably seen the highlights. Over the next week, the story got worse instead of better.

 Dad was formally charged with attempted murder and held without bail after the prosecutor convinced the judge he was a flight risk and a danger to mom. His public defender said they were planning an extreme emotional disturbance defense, basically arguing that discovering the affair had temporarily made dad insane.

 I visited him once in county jail and he looked like he’d aged 10 years. His orange jumpsuit hung loose on his frame. His eyes were hollow. His hands shook when he picked up the phone on his side of the glass partition. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said, his voice crackling through the cheap speaker.

 “I’m sorry you had to be the one to stop me. That’s going to mess you up and it’s my fault.” “Yeah, it is. I didn’t have the energy to sugarcoat anything.” The therapist aunt Julie made me see says I’m going to have PTSD from this. Nightmares, anxiety, the whole package because I had to point a gun at my own father to keep him from murdering my mother. Dad’s face crumpled.

 I wasn’t in my right mind. When I found out about the affair, something broke inside me. All I could think about was making the pain stop. Making her pay for what she’d done. By killing her? By making me watch you kill her? I leaned closer to the glass. Did you even think about what that would do to me? Did you think about anything except your own hurt? No.

 Dad’s admission was quiet. No, I didn’t think about you or anyone else. I just wanted it to end. Well, it ended, just not the way you planned. I stood up. The prosecutor says you’re looking at 15 to 25 years if you take a plea deal. If you go to trial and lose, you could get life. I know. My lawyer explained everything.

 Dad put his hand against the glass and I noticed he’d been crying. Carter, I need you to know something. Whatever happens to me, whatever they decide in court, I love you. You’re the only good thing I ever did in my life. And I’m sorry I wrecked it. I wanted to say I loved him too, but the words stuck in my throat.

 This man had tried to murder my mother in front of me. Love felt too simple, too clean for something this complicated. I have to go. Aunt Julie’s waiting. Mom’s situation unfolded more slowly, but proved just as devastating. The police investigation into Richard Brennan revealed that mom had been signing off on fraudulent documents for months, possibly years.

Fake property appraisals, inflated sale prices, escrow funds being diverted to offshore accounts. She claimed ignorance, said Brennan had told her the paperwork was legitimate, that she’d trusted him, but forensic accountants found emails where mom had questioned certain transactions, and Brennan had explained them away.

 The district attorney said they had enough to charge her as an accessory to fraud and moneyaundering. “I didn’t know,” Mom insisted when I confronted her at Aunt Julie’s house, where she’d been staying since Dad’s arrest. We weren’t living together anymore. I’d made that clear. She could stay in a hotel or with friends, but I couldn’t be around her right now.

 Richard told me everything was legal, just aggressive business practices. I believed him because I She couldn’t finish, but I knew because she loved him. Because he’d made her feel alive. The prosecutor doesn’t believe you. They’re offering a plea deal. 10 years in federal prison in exchange for testifying against Brennan. I’d heard this from the lawyer Aunt Julie had helped mom retain.

 A sharp woman named Diane Chen, who’d been very frank about mom’s chances if the case went to trial. Mom’s face went white. 10 years, Carter, I’ll miss your entire adulthood. I’ll miss college. I’ll miss graduation. I’ll miss. She started crying again, and I felt nothing. The well of sympathy I’d always had for my mother had run dry somewhere between watching dad load that gun and learning she’d been complicit in fraud.

 You should have thought about that before you started sleeping with your boss and signing illegal documents. I grabbed my backpack, ready to leave. Aunt Julie says I can stay with her through high school. After that, I don’t know. Maybe college somewhere far away where nobody knows our family. Please don’t hate me.

 Mom reached for my hand and I pulled away. I made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but I’m still your mother. I still love you. Love. The word tasted bitter. Dad loved you, too. And you destroyed him. Now we’re all paying for your choices. Dad’s in jail. You’re going to prison. And I’m the kid whose family fell apart so spectacularly.

 It made the news. The story had indeed made the news. Local man attempts murder after discovering wife’s affair ran in the county paper. Then the fraud investigation broke and it became real estate fraud case linked to attempted murder. Some enterprising reporter had even tracked down Richard Brennan’s wife, who’d filed for divorce the day after the fraud charges went public.

 She gave an interview about being betrayed, about having no idea her husband was stealing from clients or sleeping with his office manager. The whole ugly mess was public entertainment now. School became impossible. Everyone knew, everyone whispered, everyone stared. Some kids treated me with exaggerated sympathy, like I was made of glass and might shatter if they said the wrong thing.

 Others avoided me completely, afraid the drama might be contagious. A few [ __ ] made jokes about my mom being a home wrecker until Dylan punched one of them in the cafeteria and got suspended for 3 days. They can all go [ __ ] themselves, Dylan said when I visited him during his suspension. Your family’s going through hell and these people are acting like it’s reality TV.

It kind of is though. I slumped on his couch, exhausted from another sleepless night. The whole thing’s so ridiculous it doesn’t feel real. My dad tried to kill my mom. My mom’s going to prison for fraud. and I’m living with my aunt who’s nice but doesn’t really know what to do with a traumatized teenager.

 What do you need? Dylan asked. Like actually need not what adults think you need, but what would actually help? I thought about it. For it to be 6 months ago. For mom to not have cheated. For dad to not have grabbed that gun. For our family to still exist in some form that isn’t completely destroyed.

 Yeah, but you can’t have that. So what can you have? I don’t know. Normaly. A day where I don’t think about what happened. A future that doesn’t feel totally [ __ ] Then we focus on that. Dylan stood up, pulled me to my feet. We’re going to hang out like normal people. Play video games, eat garbage food, talk about literally anything except your parents.

 For the next 4 hours, we’re just two friends being stupid teenagers. We tried. God, we tried, but even gaming felt hollow. The jokes falling flat. The normaly I craved feeling performative and fake because my life wasn’t normal anymore. My father was in jail awaiting trial for attempted murder. My mother was negotiating a plea deal for fraud.

 And I was the kid who pointed a gun at his own father to keep him from killing someone. The nightmares started 2 weeks later. Vivid, visceral dreams where I didn’t grab the gun in time, where dad pulled the trigger and mom’s blood sprayed across the walls. Dreams where the gun went off while we were struggling and I was the one who died.

 Dreams where I hesitated and dad killed mom, then himself, then turned the gun on me. I’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. Aunt Julie rushing to my room to make sure I was okay. You need to talk to the therapist more,” she said after the fifth nightmare in a row. “This isn’t getting better on its own, Carter.” The therapist, a soft-spoken woman named Dr.

Enuan, explained that I was experiencing acute trauma response. That witnessing violence between parents, especially violence you had to personally intervene in, created lasting psychological damage. She used terms like complex PTSD and moral injury and said, “I’d probably be dealing with this for years.

 Will I ever feel normal again?” I asked during one session. “Define normal, Dr. Nuen leaned forward, her expression gentle. Your normal changed the night your father loaded that gun. You can’t go back to who you were before, but you can integrate this experience. Learn to live with it. Build a new normal that incorporates what you’ve survived.

That’s not encouraging. I’m not here to encourage you with false hope. I’m here to give you tools to survive what you’ve been through and eventually thrive despite it. She handed me a worksheet about grounding techniques for anxiety. Your life will be defined by this trauma, but it doesn’t have to be destroyed by it. The choice is yours.

Dad’s trial started 4 months after the incident. The prosecution laid out their case methodically. Dad had discovered the affair, had spent the afternoon drinking and building up rage, had deliberately loaded his shotgun, and waited for mom to come home, premeditated attempted murder. The defense argued extreme emotional disturbance, presented testimony about how devoted dad had been to his marriage, how the discovery of the affair had triggered a complete psychological break.

 I was called to testify for the prosecution. had to sit in a witness box and describe in excruciating detail what I’d seen and heard that night. The prosecutor made me say multiple times that dad had pointed the gun at mom, that he’d pulled the trigger, even if I’d interfered with his aim, that he told mom he was going to make her pay.

 Dad’s defense attorney tried to paint me as traumatized and unreliable, suggested my memory might be distorted by stress. But the physical evidence backed me up. The hole in the ceiling, the powder burns on dad’s hands, the 911 call recording where mom could be heard screaming in the background. The jury deliberated for 6 hours. Guilty of attempted murder.

 Dad showed no reaction when the verdict was read. Just sat there staring at the table in front of him. The judge set sentencing for 2 weeks later, and the baiff led dad away in handcuffs. He looked back at me once before disappearing through the door, his expression unreadable. At sentencing, the judge gave him 20 years with possibility of parole after 12. “Mr.

Holloway,” the judge said, looking down at Dad over her reading glasses. You committed an act of extreme violence against your wife in the presence of your minor child. You traumatized your son and nearly killed your spouse. While the court acknowledges the emotional distress caused by discovering infidelity, that does not excuse or justify attempting murder.

 Society must be protected from individuals who respond to emotional pain with lethal violence. Mom took her plea deal a week later, 8 years in federal prison in exchange for full cooperation in prosecuting Richard Brennan. She’d serve her time at a minimum security facility in Pennsylvania, about 6 hours from where I’d be living.

 Aunt Julie promised to take me for visits if I wanted to go. I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Wasn’t sure I could sit across from my mother in a prison visiting room and pretend we were still family in any meaningful sense. Richard Brennan got 15 years for fraud, moneyaundering, and a dozen other charges.

 His wife took everything in the divorce, house, cars, bank accounts. He’d be middle-aged when he got out, broke and unemployable. His real estate empire destroyed. Part of me took satisfaction in that he’d helped destroy my family. Now his own life was in ruins, too. I graduated high school with decent grades despite everything. Got accepted to a state university 3 hours away.

 Far enough to feel like escape, but close enough to visit Aunt Julie when the loneliness got too heavy. She’d become my legal guardian. Had helped me navigate the aftermath of losing both parents to prison. Had been the steady presence I needed when everything else was chaos. “You’re going to be okay,” she told me the night before I left for college.

 I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re stronger than you realize. You survived something terrible, and you’re still here, still moving forward. I pointed a gun at my own father. The words came out raw. I held him at gunpoint to keep him from killing mom. What kind of person does that make me? A person who chose to protect life over allowing death.

 A person who acted with courage in an impossible situation. Aunt Julie pulled me into a hug. You saved your mother’s life that night, even though she’d hurt your family badly. That’s heroic, Carter. Even if it doesn’t feel that way. I visited dad once before leaving for school. He looked older now, his hair gone completely gray, his face lined with regret.

 We sat across from each other in the visiting room, surrounded by other families trying to maintain connection through prison glass and monitored phone calls. I’m going to college, I told him. State University. Thinking about majoring in psychology, maybe social work. Want to help families before they get to where we ended up.

Dad’s eyes filled with tears. That’s good. That’s really good, son. Turn this nightmare into something positive. I’m not doing it because of you or for you. The words came out harsher than I intended. I’m doing it because I saw what happens when people don’t get help. Don’t talk about their problems. Just let things fester until they explode.

You destroyed our family because you couldn’t handle your pain in a healthy way. I’m going to help other families avoid that. I deserved that. Dad wiped his eyes. I deserve everything you’re feeling toward me. But I need you to know. If I could go back and change that night, I would. I’d choose therapy, divorce, literally anything except picking up that gun.

 But you can’t go back. None of us can. I stood up. Our time almost done. You’ll be in prison until I’m almost 30. By the time you get out, I’ll have built a whole life you weren’t part of. Had experiences you’ll never know about. Maybe have my own family and you’ll be this guy I used to know.

 The father who tried to kill my mother. I know. Dad’s voice broke. I know. And I have to live with that. Just promise me one thing. Don’t let what I did define your whole life. You’re more than this tragedy, Carter. You always were. I didn’t promise anything. Just hung up the phone and walked away, leaving dad on the other side of the glass.

 Mom wrote me letters from her prison that I rarely opened, pages of apologies and regrets that felt empty and too late. I responded maybe once every few months with brief updates. Made dean’s list, joined the psychology club, started dating someone who didn’t know my history, building a life separate from the wreckage of the one I’d been born into.

 10 years later, I was finishing my master’s degree in family therapy when I got the call that dad was up for parole. They wanted me to submit a statement about whether I thought he should be released. I stared at the form for 3 days before finally writing. My father attempted to murder my mother in front of me, traumatizing me in ways I’m still processing a decade later.

 But he’s also served his time, attended every therapy session offered, and by all accounts has been a model prisoner. I don’t forgive him for what he did, but I recognize he’s paid society’s price for his crime. What he does with his freedom is his responsibility now, not mine. He was granted parole 6 months later. Mom got out the year after, having served her full sentence with time off for good behavior.

 They both tried to reconnect with me. Awkward phone calls and requests to meet for coffee that I mostly declined. I saw dad twice in 3 years. Brief uncomfortable meetings where we struggled to find common ground beyond the trauma that connected us. Mom I saw once at Aunt Julie’s funeral when she died suddenly of an aneurysm. And we barely spoke beyond condolences.

 We were strangers who’d once been family, linked by blood and history, but separated by choices that could never be unmade. I built a good life despite it all. A career helping families in crisis. a partner who understood my scars. Eventually, children of my own who’d never know what I survived in that living room.

 But I never forgot the sound of that shotgun being loaded, or my mother’s scream, or the weight of that gun in my hands, when I pointed it at my father and chose who would live and who would die. Some nights I still wake up from dreams where I made different choices, where I hesitated or failed, where my family’s destruction was complete instead of just catastrophic.

 And I remember that every family is three bad decisions away from implosion. That love and rage live closer together than anyone wants to admit. And that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is survive.