I woke up at 2 a.m. to 18 missed calls from my daughter and a text: “Dad, help! Come fast!!” I raced to her house, but she hadn’t sent it. As I left, another text arrived: “I remember what you did.” It was from an unknown number, an area code from my old town. My past flooded back.
In high school, my friend Collin harassed a new girl, Sarika. One night, he planned to burn her porch. I stopped him, tossing his lighter, but never reported it. Sarika left soon after. I buried the guilt.
Now, texts came nightly: “You looked the other way.” “Do your hands smell like gasoline?” A USB arrived with footage of that night, and another of Sarika, crying, finding the lighter. I was shattered.
I confessed to my wife. Then I called the number. It was Zubin, Sarika’s cousin. She’d died years ago but left journals and tapes. In one, she forgave me, saying I stopped something terrible. Still, I’d failed her.
Guilt-ridden, I returned to Abingdon, starting The Sarika Project to combat harassment and fund scholarships. Zubin spoke at the launch; we cried together. My daughter later texted that the project helped her friend’s sister. The weight lingers, but using it to help others makes it lighter.
