I, Jackson, a 27-year-old man, was 17 the night my life ended, without me dying. My family was having one of those big Saturday dinners. Grandparents, uncles, cousins, the whole group.
My parents loved to put on a show when the house was full. Mom was always in her element when there were eyes on her, speaking loudly, boasting about how our family lived.
Dad was grilling meat outside while my brother and I were taking chairs out of the garage.
And then there was Apple, my adopted sister. My parents brought her home when she was eight because she had always wanted a pineapple. She fit right in. Quiet, polite, shy.
I helped her with her homework, taught her how to ride a bike, and even defended her when the other kids made fun of her for being adopted. I never thought of her as anything other than my sister.
That night she was acting strange. She wasn’t eating, but she kept moving her hands. I thought maybe she was sick or simply married.
After dinner, when everyone was in the room, he got up from the table, trembling, and said that he needed to cost everyone something.
