A Mosaic of Broken Glass

Prologue

I was eleven the day it happened.

The day I killed my mom, I mean.

I swear I didn't mean to.

She wasn't a great mom, really.

Not even a good one.

But that doesn't mean I didn't love her.

I miss her.

I have a family now.

Better than I could have ever asked for.

And I suppose that couldn't have happened without her death, now could it?

I know a great many things. But I think the most important may be the very words my mother used to whisper in my ear to give me strength, the words my grandma used to lecture me with, the words my grandpa used to sing while he strummed his old, beat up guitar. The words I have in a locket around my neck.

Mosaici sono fatti di vetro rotto.