It was my fault, my fault. It all Started one muggy night at my home in Alabama. I the eldest of three daughters. My second eldest sister was named Ida and was fifteen; my youngest sister was named Stacy and was twelve. Me you ask? My name was the ugliest of all Helga I was seventeen. Who in their right mind would name their daughter Helga? The answer to that question was my parents. For the thought that if they named me Helga it would be unique and beautiful. In my opinion yes unique, beautiful no. Anyhow we lived on a farm an old farm at that and we all loved it, for the most part anyway. My job was to cook, Ida's to clean the bathroom and living room and Stacy had dishes and garden duty. One day when I went to come down to start dinner I saw my sisters fighting. For this was not an unusual happening and as eldest I thought that I should stop it. As I went to push them apart I failed to see that there was a knife on the ground leaning against the fridge. To stop the fighting I yelled when this came to no avail I pushed. I pushed them apart and I pushed too hard, so hard that Stacy fell. Stacy fell and had the hardest fall of her life. The fall would have been perfect except for the fact that she fell on that knife. Why the knife was there no one seems to know but, there was one thing that I knew and that thing was that in some way it was my fault.