Six months ago over breakfast, Ramzi knocked his grape juice down on the kitchen table. I didn’t get up. I didn’t put my newspaper down. I watched the purple shape reach the end of the table and drip onto my shoe. Then I hit him. I slapped him hard on the cheek. I felt the futility of regret when I saw fear in my daughter’s eyes. She’s seen the monster and she can’t unsee it. What hurt me the most was the way Ramzi took it. He didn’t cry. He found a cleaning cloth and wiped the juice off the table, then he looked at me, unsure if he should clean my shoe. It wasn’t just a boy trying to make amends. I saw . . . respect. He’d learned something that morning, something horrible that would stay with him his whole life.
I wanted to leave—not the room, or the house, or the town. I thought the pills were the only thing keeping me here, so I stopped taking them for a week. I’m still here. I think about leaving from time to time. I wonder if anyone would miss me. I think about leaving, but I don’t. I’m still here. I choose to stay. I stay because I’m a father. I will always love my children, and I will be there for them, to cherish them and protect them, even from me. I stay because I am a husband. Even in the darkness I carry, my wife still shines bright. She is the beacon I follow whenever I have doubts. I owe Tidir a life. It’s a debt I can never repay, but the least I can do is try. I stay because I am a doctor, a neighbour, a friend. I stay because I have a responsibility to the people around me.
My name is Idir Jalil, and I’m a citizen.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Lee Harris and everyone at Tor.com for giving this story a home. Thank you to my agent, Seth, and the amazing team at Gernert, and to Jon Cassir at CAA. To my son and all the kids who see people as people and haven’t learned how to hate, thank you. You give me hope.