Ashlen Grubbs is a sophomore cheerleader who enjoys reading, writing, and making people laugh. “I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we will never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we came from, we can still choose where we go from there.” –Stephen Chbosky

“Promise me you will bring her with you next time?” I plead.

“I’ll see what I can do, Christopher,” my wife says, running her fingers through her hair.

She only calls me Christopher when she’s upset.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, my tears on the verge of spilling over onto the table.

“Of course not,” she says, “I’ve got to go home now.”

Her chair squeaks across the linoleum flooring, a sharp sound that resonates through the room. The room is all neutral colors with “positive vibes” written on the wall in cursive. The piercing noise sticks out like the big red panic buttons. The room was stretched tight, a rope, knotted with tension. I can see the other patients, heads turn, following her, paranoid. I look back down at my lap.

I sit there after she leaves. I ignore the cool steel chair underneath me, and the other patients’ eyes surveying my every move; all I can focus on is the photo. My daughter’s blonde ringlets, crooked teeth, and deep brown eyes glow right off the school picture. The edges of the photograph are soft and tattered. When I move my finger I can still see the bloody finger print I left that day.

Guilty as charged. The voice of the judge echoes in my head.

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