She managed to live on, though, with the presence of her father, even if he remarried someone who didn’t like her, somebody he didn’t stand up to.
The world kept turning. But now he was gone, too, killed by the woman she’d desperately wanted to complain to him about, but never had the nerve. Would he have even done anything if she had complained? She wasn’t sure. Her brain knew that her father’s death was not her fault, but her heart wished that she’d tried to get him away from her stepmother, away where she couldn’t hurt either of them.
Erin didn’t cry. Crying didn’t get you anywhere, not at her age. So she sat in silence on the airplane next to her aunt and uncle, who seemed content to allow her to grieve quietly.