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The Freedom of Forgiveness

They told me they couldn’t reach him. And immediately, as though I had seen it myself, I screamed, “He did this!” My aunt and my step-father looked at me in disbelief. “He did this,” I said again. “He killed my mama.” I walked up to one of the police officers. “My brother did this,” I told him.

The officer looked at me in disbelief, and tried to calm me down. “You’re upset,” he said. “We’ll find the person or persons that did this.” He told me my mom had been shot in the head at point-blank range as she slept. There was no evidence of a break-in, a robbery, or even a tussle. She was laying on her back as if asleep, with a pillow in her arms.

“My brother did this,” I insisted. “I’m going to find him and kill him.” Something had shifted in me. In a moment, I had moved from crazy grief to rage such as I had never felt before. The detectives in plain clothes came over to me and told me to stop saying that I was going to kill him. But I couldn’t; I kept saying it.