When I turned five years old, it was the fifth anniversary of when my daddy left. It was also the day my mother shot herself.

My mom was always a delightful person, and she was always there for me. When a girl pushed me down in kindergarten, my mother took me out for ice cream and made sure to contact that girl’s mother.

When the police started asking me questions upon her suicide, they tried to get me to answer, “Was she depressed?”

Every time they asked, I would sternly say, “No.”

But the police tend to stretch the question, thinking I didn’t know what “depressed” mean, but I did. My mother had explained that that was wrong with my father, whenever I asked.

Now, I am older, and for the rest of my childhood, I had lived with my grandmother, a woman who made me emotionless and hard. I had always wished to break free- to return to Mom and be apart of the life I had always wanted to still be in.

But thanks to the sound of gunshot, it can never be.

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