I didn't mean to kill him. But I was there the night he died

I didn't mean to kill him. But I was there the night he died, and I've never told anyone the truth.

The rain was coming down sideways that night, hard enough to drown out the sound of his truck rattling up my gravel driveway. I was standing at the kitchen window, watching him stumble out, already drunk at 9 PM. My husband of 15 years, Mark. The man who promised to love me until the day he died.

He made it to the porch before he started yelling. Same old song — where was dinner, why was the house a mess, why couldn't I just be a decent wife for once. I stood there with my arms crossed, letting the words wash over me like the rain. I'd learned to go numb years ago.

When he pushed past me into the kitchen, I saw the new bottle of whiskey in his hand. Half empty. His eyes had that wild look I knew too well. The look that meant I'd be sleeping with one eye open.

"You hear me?" he slurred, grabbing my arm. His fingers dug in deep enough to leave bruises. "I asked you a question."

I didn't answer. I just stared at the butcher knife on the counter, three feet away.

He laughed, let me go, and stumbled toward the basement stairs. "I'm going to get the gun," he said, like he was announcing he was going to watch the game. "And when I come back up, we're going to have a real conversation."

The basement door slammed behind him.

I heard the first thud. Then the second. Then the long, terrible silence.

I didn't go down there. Not for an hour. Not until the police showed up asking why I hadn't called sooner.

The autopsy said he fell. Said his neck broke on the concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs.

But I knew the truth. I knew those stairs. I knew which step had a loose board. I knew he'd never fixed it, no matter how many times I asked.

And I knew — God help me — that I didn't warn him.