“You think he’s okay?” I asked my papa as we started walking slowly up the path. “I check in with him several times a day, Bonn. He’s doing the best he can. His therapist is happy with his progress.” My father’s voice grew husky as he said, “It’s just you, you know? He wants to fix you. And he can’t.” My papa pulled me close. “It’s hard for your brother, and your papa, to deal with. The fact that we can’t protect you. Can’t heal you.” “Papa…” I whispered, my throat thickening with sadness.
