Crimson Roses, The Daughter's Vengeance

When my mother jumped from the third floor, I was standing behind the rose bushes in the garden.

My six-year-old fingers dug deep into the mud. I didn’t cry.

My mother’s blood stained the white dress she loved so much. It turned a deep, sickening crimson.

Fourteen years later, I stood by the window of that same bedroom. I watched my grandfather, Silas Sterling, collapse from a stroke.

My father, Arthur Sterling, knelt before me, trembling.

I leaned down and gently lifted his chin with my fi