“You don’t have to be sorry,” Vanessa said.
“I hated your son,” I said.
The kitchen went quiet.
I made myself look at Danny. Across my kitchen table. With his scarred face and his gentle brown eyes and Ellie leaning against his arm.
“I hated you,” I said to him. “For three years. I didn’t even know your name. I hated you because they died and you lived. Because they stopped for you. Because if they’d just kept driving, they’d still be here.”
Danny didn’t look away. He took it. Every word.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry, Danny. You were twelve. You were a child. You were burning. And I hated you.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“I hated me too,” he said.
I stared at him.
“For a long time,” he said. “Every single day. I’d look in the mirror at my face and I’d think, two people are dead because of me. A little girl doesn’t have a mom because of me. Why did I get to live? Why me?” He swallowed. “I stopped eating for a while. I stopped going to school. I didn’t want to be alive. It felt like stealing.”
