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Chapter 29
MIA
TheminuteIgothome, my day went from bad to worse.
The living room was a war zone. Clothes were strewn everywhere, along with what appeared to be a set of bed sheets, and what I recognized as my father’s luggage. In the middle of the mess was the Christmas tree, lying haphazardly, half out of the box, along with the plastic bins of ornaments, like my mom had decided to put it up after all, then gave up.
Shouting came from the master bedroom down the hall, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what happened—clearly, my parents had gotten into some kind of epic fight. ‘Tis the season.
I sighed as I picked my way through the living room, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water when my gaze landed on a pile of mail on the kitchen table.
Something pulled at me, urged me over. I reached out and grabbed the envelope on top with shaking hands. Sure enough, University of North Carolina Chapel Hill was printed in the left-hand corner in bold letters.
I squeezed my eyes closed, and my parents shouting faded to the background as I said a little prayer, then tore it open. With shaking hands, I pulled out the letter inside. And my heart dropped.
Dear Miss Mia Randalls,
We at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill regret to inform you . . .
I dropped my hands, and my vision blurred with tears. I didn’t need to read the rest of the letter to know what it said. Those opening words were enough.
We regret to inform you . . .
We regret to inform you . . .
Five tiny words that were like a knife in my back.
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, only a day before Ella came home, 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.
