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nasty frown. “But if Grayson dies, please invite me to his funeral.”
    “Okay,” she says softly. “Thanks for coming to my wedding, Hellie. You’re—you’re the only one who really cares.” Carmen throws her arms around me in one final, tight hug before leaving the library.
    I could feel all her love and fear in the fierceness of her embrace. It brings tears to my eyes. I listen to her hurried footsteps as she turns and rushes across the foyer to do her duty and walk down the aisle. I know that she’s just trying to be strong and do the right thing. Who am I to judge? Maybe it is the right thing to do. Maybe Grayson really is a good person with some sort of mental illness, and maybe the good he does in the world makes up for his sins. Maybe the good he does for my family makes up for what he did to me. Maybe he really will be a good father.
    Somehow, I have trouble believing this.
    The news of my sister’s pregnancy is bittersweet. She seems excited at the prospect, and I will be happy to be an auntie. I wonder if Dad knows? Either way, I’m sure he would be thrilled. I just always imagined this happening under different circumstances. I imagined more laughter and safety. I imagined that it would be slow and carefully planned. I imagined throwing baby showers and parties, and celebrating with friends. I imagined that Mom would be there to help Carmen and guide her with good advice.
    I imagined looking up to my big sister as she succeeded in life and accomplished huge milestones. I imagined patterning myself off her, and using her achievements to give me direction. I imagined her guiding me with her greater years and wisdom, and helping me feel certain on my own path. I imagined so much stupid bullshit that will never happen. Sure, I somewhat expected to use her mistakes to guide me on what not to do, but not to this extent.
    This is not a mistake. This is a tragedy.
    I slowly make my way out of the library, but I only get as far as the doorframe before I have to lean against the wall for support. It’s my fault. If I had been braver, and tried to find my attacker instead of simply running away... I could have prevented this. I knew some information about him—although I’m not sure if it was accurate. I knew that he was an engineer and a football player. Those could have been lies, but I could have provided a general description of his physical build. I knew where he was, and at what time—there could have been security footage on the campus to show who was in the vicinity. 
    I was selfish and self-absorbed. I thought it was just about me, and my drama. I thought that if no one else had to hear my story and deal with the event, that they would all be safe. I thought that pretending it never happened could make it go away.
    I thought it only happened to me because of my disability. I thought that by being blind, I was somehow asking for it. I thought that by crying in a stairwell, I had made myself vulnerable and an easy target; I announced myself as a victim, and it was almost entirely my fault. I thought that other women—normal women—would be able to look at a man and instantly see all the evil and cruelty inside him written on his face. Shouldn’t those things be glaringly obvious?
    It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I could have protected her. I believed I was protecting her from the harshness of the truth, but really, I was concealing knowledge from her and exposing her to the harshness of reality. Now, she’s pregnant. He made her pregnant. Probably without her consent or any planning. I failed her. I failed my sister.
    She’s not even thirty years old, but her life is over.
    I hear the music quiet down and the minister begin to commence the ceremony. Each word is more grating to my ears than nails on a chalkboard. I can’t stay in the house and listen to this anymore. I hate myself for what I’ve done. For letting this happen. How could I have been so stupid?
    I hear footsteps on the