I have never been a suicidal person. That's not what this is about. I just wanted him to drown me and then drown himself. People accused me of not being unhappy enough. But deep down I was just as unhappy as any of them, unhappier. I wondered about the genuineness of their alleged melancholy. I felt conned. They had significant others. They had dinner plans, trivia nights, karaoke. They lived in big cities, had social obligations. I never left my house except to drive my daughter to school. Most of the time I couldn't even get him on the phone. I hadn't seen him since I couldn't remember when.

He said, "You're not serious. You couldn't do that to ----."

Deep down I knew he was wrong — I was serious — but I didn't want to say so. He thought I was a good person, an exemplary parent. I didn't want him to know the truth, how selfish I really was. I thought if he knew, he might drown someone else instead.

---- was thirteen, full of sarcasm and sexual tension. She thought of me as her best friend, but I knew that feeling wouldn't last. I figured it was better to leave too soon, before things soured, than too late, after they already had. I felt the same way about him. In the past I'd stayed until no one felt anything. I didn't want to make that same mistake with either of them. I thought given a little time, I could convince ---- of the advantages of drowning. I could convince her of anything if I wanted to badly enough. She pretended for her friends' benefit that she didn't respect me but I caught her quoting me to them all the time, referencing films and books I'd recommended, spewing my views on politics, religion, the environment… i.e. we didn't give a shit about any of the above. I wasn't worried about her following in my footsteps. There were too many boys she wanted to fuck. She wasn't going to drown herself anytime soon.

(If I had a sledgehammer I'd smash the hell out of you right now. Sorry, this is what I'm thinking at the moment: how fucking incredible it would be to smash your beautiful, backhanded face in. Not as an act of violence but as an act of contrition.)

I had worked out a spiel for ---- inside my head. I had worked out a spiel for him as well. The spiels were similar. I could already see the look of understanding in her eyes. He would take more convincing. He thought I had more reasons for living than I actually did.

He was going back to ____. You probably knew what this was really about.

When we met he said he would have broken up with anyone for me. Something had changed but I couldn't put my finger on what.

"Drown me before you go," I said. There was a glass of water on the counter between us. Whether it was half full or half empty, I didn't think mattered. I'd concluded there was enough water either way. 

"You couldn't do that to ----," he said.

I didn't want to admit he was right, but I stood quietly by and watched as he poured the water into the sink. I stared at his face and thought about how much more beautiful it would be after I'd taken a sledgehammer to it. I began concocting a spiel for ---- inside my head. She was averse to the sight of blood but I knew I could convince her otherwise. I knew I could make her see the beauty in his realigned features if I wanted to badly enough. She possessed a loyalty to me he should have but didn't. I thought maybe she and I would make it after all.