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I didn’t get in. And while UNC wasn’t my first choice, I had yet to hear from Duke or any of the other colleges. Early admission was reserved for the exceptional, I told myself. For people with talent like Carson. Not for people like me.
I ground my teeth as I tore the letter to shreds, then threw the remnants in the air, watching them flutter around me like confetti. When the sound of footsteps grew closer, I broke free from my pity party to listen as they stopped, just outside the kitchen.
My parents probably hadn’t realized I came home yet, I mused. I should tell them. It was the right thing to do, so they didn’t say something they didn’t want me to hear. But I couldn’t seem to move my feet. I couldn’t seem to care.
Then my father’s voice burst through the walls and the knife twisted a little deeper. “I am so sick of this. Sick of everything. It’s the same old crap,” he yelled.
I flinched, as though he said those words to me and not my mom.
“No one’s forcing you to stay, Dan,” Mom shouted, her voice cutting like a knife. “You can leave at any time.”
“Fine,” Dad barked. “I want a divorce.”
His voice cut, blade sharp. Everything went silent.
I had expected it. Hadn’t I? I had anticipated this moment for a long time, almost hoped for it these past months because I couldn’t take one more second of the fighting. But now it was here, and I wished it away.
The answering silence was deafening. All I wanted to do was erase the last ten seconds, wipe it from my brain. I wanted the fighting back, the screaming matches, and the finger-pointing. As awful as those things were, at least they meant I had both of my parents. Because all that would remain once those things were gone was. . .nothing—silence. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure which would be worse.
Two days before Christmas and my parents wanted a divorce. The thought crushed me, made my insides twist with dread.
With purpose, I slowly walked into the living room on wooden legs. When I entered, I saw my parents, standing face-to-face, limbs trembling with anger, faces contorted in rage, and a pain so deep it made my throat ache. It took them a whole minute to realize I was standing there.
I wanted to shout, to yell like they’d been yelling, Remember me, your daughter? I live here. I’m part of this family, too. But the moment Dad’s gaze turned to mine, his eyes widened in shock first, then shame, and Mom’s mask crumpled as she cried.
And I remembered that no matter how badly this hurt, it wasn’t about me. Not everything was about me, and I couldn’t save them. Not with good behavior, straight As, or early admission to Duke. My parents’ relationship had been over a long time ago. It just took them this long to admit it. Nothing I could say would change that.
“Mia,” my mother hurried forward, her hands fluttering out in front of her in the way they often did when she was upset or nervous.
I took a step back, holding a hand out like a linebacker’s stiff-arm. Luckily, she got the hint and backed off.
Mom cleared her throat. “Honey, we need to talk.”
“Do you think I’m deaf? Or blind? Like I can’t see what’s happening? Like I think all of this is normal?” I asked, waving madly around the room.
“Mia. . .” Dad tried to grab my arm, but I wrenched it away and sidestepped him.
“I told you this was affecting her,” my mother said, her eyes blazing as she stared at my father, accusation oozing from her pores.
“Oh, and I suppose it’s all my fault?” he snapped.
“Well, it sure ain’t all mine,” Mom shouted.
Oh. My. Gosh.
I growled as I shoved my hands into my hair, yanking slightly at the roots, needing the slight discomfort as a reminder that I was, in fact, alive and standing in the living room with them. I was there—flesh and blood—they were just so blinded by their own anger to see me.
I squeezed my eyes closed as their bickering escalated, before I snapped, “Stop! For the love of all that’s holy. Just. Stop.”
The room fell silent. No denial, no arguments. Just silence.
Mom’s stunned expression at my outburst morphed into one of mortification. I never raised my voice to them, never lost my cool. They were so used to me being the “perfect” daughter. I did everything right to the point of exhaustion. The day I tried to choke Carson was probably the only time in my life I could remember doing anything worth punishing.
I didn’t wait for an answer or a response. Instead, I bounded up the stairs,
letting the thudding sound of my footsteps be my closing argument, retreating into the haven of my room. Only a couple minutes later, I was antsy. I couldn’t sit still, and the knot in the back of my throat moved to my heart when my gaze landed on the mini Christmas tree lit up on my desk.
My stomach wrenched. Why wasn’t Carson responding to my texts or calling me back? Why’d he stand me up? Not once, but twice.
