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I am born into the Calvagna family, a weak frail child. 

At the age of three I tell my mother I will be a hero someday. She weeps holding me closely. 

In late August everyone gathers for my sixth birthday. The air is thin and clammy. Drawn out whispers of secrets unknown cascade all around me.  
     "It’s a miracle...."  "The boy is alive"  "Wasn't he supposed to be dead?"  

No one wishes me a happy birthday. Even mom. She locks herself in the attic. 

Three years later, a wardrobe falls on my grandma in her room. I find her sprawled on the floor with the wardrobe on top of her. "Help, somebody!" I run around the house looking for someone, to no avail. I go back and attempt to lift the wardrobe myself. In one fluid motion, it comes off. I look at the thing that lies before me, and it is not my grandma. This thing looks like a dead animal in the wild that has been brutally shot and now waits to be devoured by the vulture circling high up the in the sky knowing a meal awaits soon. 

The doctor pronounces her death as an accident. No one asks me who lifted the wardrobe off of her. Her funeral is humble. 
A month before my 10th birthday, grandpa collapses. The doctor says he's getting old. I stay at his bedside at all times. One night he ruffles my hair but still he does not meet my eyes; a trend that has not escaped my notice. He goes on to say, "my child, I am sorry." Fear grips me, and I know. I know! He's going to tell me the truth. The explanation for everything: the silent fear in everyone's eyes, the sadness that has possessed my mother, the hushed arguments, the strength  I... that...

"Robert, take this letter; it is the only thing this foolish old man can do for you. Open it when the time presents itself."  

The next day, grandpa croaks 'peacefully', as the doctor puts it. His funeral is solemn. 

On my tenth birthday, I am beaming and overjoyed from head to toe, grandpa's letter forgotten in my underwear drawer. I vow to not let anything get me down, until I find out there is no party. No dinner. Nothing. My mother once again is bawling her eyes out. 'I'm the one who should be crying', I ache to scream at her. 

The maid dresses me in my shabbiest clothing, wordlessly. I am told I can take three things. I grab grandpa’s letter and a bottle of water. I am escorted to the door, before I take my first step outside I look back. Those stupid tears are still trailing along my mother's cheeks and my father is just as fidgety and afraid as ever.
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