“No! Please don’t burn that!” I screamed while my father threw my grandmother’s handmade quilt into a flaming barrel behind our house.

it.

Inside were several charred charcoal sketches.

And one burned square from my grandmother’s quilt.

My breath caught.

After forcing me to watch everything burn, Gerald had secretly gone back into the night and pulled these fragments from the ashes. He kept them hidden for six years.

It was pathetic.

Twisted.

A broken man’s version of remorse.

It didn’t erase continue reading …