I never cry. I didn’t cry when I told Mom about what Dad did. I didn’t cry when he packed his bags and left. I didn’t cry when we received that phone call from the highway patrol at five thirty in the morning. I didn’t cry when I declined my scholarship offers, when Bob fired me, in Defne’s car on my way back from Nolan’s house. I never cried, even when I wanted to, because when I asked myself if I had the right to those tears, the answer was always no, and it was easy to stop myself. But I’m sobbing now. I hide my face in my hands and wail loudly, messily, fat drops sliding down my face,
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