He Started It

by Samantha Downing

That’s the thing about family. Despite what they say, it’s not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.

You can’t fight every battle. Otherwise you end up bloodied, drained of energy, and unable to go on. Sometimes it’s better to agree and keep your mouth shut.

That’s always the way, isn’t it? The threat of physical violence eclipses everything. As a child, you know it, and as a woman, it’s always in the back of your mind. The slam of a fist can change everything.

Men who raised their voices, who showed any kind of violence, repulsed me. I wanted the quiet guy in the corner, the one on his laptop or reading a book, or just standing around being awkward.

But that’s the thing about being handed a small fortune: You start to rethink everything. Money gives you options, and the more options you have, the freer you feel.

Arguing about every little thing is what makes people hate you, especially when it comes to family. They’re the least forgiving of all.

You knew about her. Even if you didn’t consciously know, you knew because it’s how these stories go. It’s a law. Maybe even written in stone by now. There’s always a missing girl.

Sometimes we are a family of assholes. You can blame that on Grandpa, he started it.

The best, but not always the truth. It’s important to know the difference. If my family hadn’t played Risk so often, it would have taken me a lot longer to learn that.

Now the ring looks like an antique because the silver is so tarnished—yes, you guessed it, just like our marriage. That was too easy to miss.

I wonder how many bad things have been explained by such a simple phase, a simple idea. Because I could. Because no one stopped me. Because it was easy. All the same answer, and it really means because I wanted to.

Violence always starts with the slam of door or a fist. It never ends there.