Chapter 1: The Rooftop and the Fall

The day Mom, clutching her pregnant belly, stood at the edge of the rooftop, the world seemed to freeze around us. For a split second, I couldn’t breathe. The air was so still, it was like time had stopped.

The crowd below was merciless, their voices bouncing off the brick walls like a swarm of angry bees. They wanted a show.

"Jump! If you’ve got the guts, just do it!" someone shouted. They laughed as they said it. The sound stuck to me, sharp and ugly.

Another voice, cold and mocking, cut through the air. "She’s just trying to get attention—she won’t really jump." For a moment, I felt a wave of anger, then fear swallowed it whole.

Dad stood off to the side, red-faced. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking like he wished he could disappear. "Come down! Stop making a scene!" he barked, but his voice was thin, brittle—more worried about the neighbors—than about Mom.

I was the only one on my knees, sobbing so hard my chest ached. My hands were outstretched, raw from clutching the rough concrete. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate. Please—please don’t leave me... my voice barely came out, but I begged anyway.

I remember the sound. Thud—! Like a hammer falling. Like the world itself breaking. After the sickening crash, everything went silent. Even the crowd’s jeers faded, swallowed by shock. For a second, all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

When Mom first got pregnant again, it was like she was suddenly royalty. Dad and Grandma hovered over her, serving up homemade chicken noodle soup at every meal. The house always smelled like herbal tea, chicken broth, and Vicks VapoRub rubbed on every chest and back, just in case. Every old wives’ tale about having a boy was tried—blue ribbons on the doorknobs, no cold drinks, feet propped up, the works.

Grandma would press her hand to Mom’s belly, her grin stretching ear to ear. "My precious grandson, you’re worth your weight in gold," she’d croon. She was beaming, hope written all over her face.

Later, when the guessing got to be too much, the family piled into the old Chevy and drove to the next town to see a psychic. A real one. Wind chimes on the porch. Crystal ball on the table. She looked Mom up and down, then shook her head. "You’ve been running in circles for nothing! It’s another girl in there."

Grandma and Dad’s faces went pale, all the color draining away like someone had pulled the plug. My stomach dropped. It was like the air got sucked out of the room.

Grandma pursed her lips, grabbed her purse, and stood up stiff as a board. She paused, her voice colder than the Ohio winter. "I’m going home. There’s laundry on the line that needs bringing in." Then she left, not looking back once.

I didn’t dare look at Dad. I could feel the anger rolling off him. It came in waves, like heat from a car hood in July. Mom shrank into the mattress, trembling. Her hands folded tight over her belly, as if she could shield the baby from what was coming.

"This useless belly!" Dad snapped, and slapped Mom hard across the side. "Is it really so hard to give me a son?"

Mom screamed, the sound raw and wild. I threw myself over her, arms out, trying to shield her with my scrawny body. Dad yanked my hair, his fist connecting with my shoulder. Pain shot through me. Still, I held on.

After that, everything changed. The air in the house turned heavy, thick with dread. Even the walls seemed to sigh.

Dad worked as a construction foreman, and when summer rolled in—hot, muggy, the kind of heat that stuck to your skin—he started making Mom work with him, even though she was six months pregnant. To save on labor, he said. I watched from the sidewalk one day, heart pounding. Mom, her belly huge, struggled up the half-finished skeleton of a new apartment block, hauling rebar. Sweat poured down her face. She looked like she might collapse any second.

During lunch break, the workers tried to talk some sense into him, their voices low and urgent. "Frank, she can’t keep this up. She’s pregnant!" But Dad just slammed his sandwich down, the plastic bag crinkling loudly. "What heavy lifting? She can’t even carry a pipe, but she eats more than a man every day!"

Mom stood off to the side, eyes down, not daring to take another bite of her sandwich. Her hands shook as she picked at the crusts. She was starving. I could see the hunger in her eyes, the way she longed for more but wouldn’t risk it.

She was exhausted and underfed. I started sneaking peanut butter sandwiches home from school, hiding them in my backpack. "Mom, have this," I’d whisper, pushing the sandwich into her hands. She’d break down. Hug me so tight I could barely breathe. She’d sob my name again and again, her tears soaking my shirt.

Dad loved his whiskey—cheap stuff that burned going down and made him mean. When he drank, the violence came quick and ugly. Mom and I were often covered in bruises, learning to flinch at the sound of a bottle uncapping. We lived in fear.