I noticed it when I was eleven. My parents were getting a divorce and Mr. McGonnegy said they had been unhappy since I was born. Whenever they fought, Mr. McGonnegy would just look at me and shake his head and say, “They used to be happy, boy. All your fault.”

McGonnegy’s cat was just as mean as he was and hissed at me as I ran past his yard. My parents didn’t even stop me; I just bolted out of the dining room and burst out the front door. I ran just to run, to feel my feet punch the hard pavement. It was near midnight, and the street was dark. None of the houses had lights on, for none of the other parents were up late, getting divorced.

They used to be happy. All your fault.

The old man’s words echoed in my head and I pushed myself harder…