When I was four, I fell off my tricycle. I scraped my knees and cried. My mom picked me up, and carried me inside. She poured me a glass of grape juice, our favorite, to make me feel better. It worked, and I smiled.

When I was ten, my dad hit my mom for the first time. He left a bruise on her face and a lump in her throat. I picked my mother up, and helped her to the kitchen. I poured her a glass of grape juice, our favorite, to make her feel better. It worked, and she smiled.

When I was seventeen, my mother was murdered. She was shot during one of my father's drunken rages. I left a rose on her grave, and drove home. I poured myself a glass of grape juice, our favorite, to make me feel better.
 

It didn't work this time, or any other time since.