“Mom?” My tiny voice called over the arguing of the couple parked a few cars away, their voices harsh and cold.  The movie theater parking lot was being enveloped in the increasing darkness of the setting sun, and I could see the shadowed contours of my mom’s face from where I stood a few feet below her. She looked down at me with a benevolent smile.

“Uh-huh?”  she hummed in question.

“Will you and dad ever get a divorce?” I mumbled, keeping a mindful eye on the disagreeing couple. 
Mom glanced in the direction I was looking in before answering, “No, sweetie, your dad and I won’t get a divorce.”  She gave my hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.

I simply nodded in assurance. 

In the years to follow, fighting between my parents ensued--fighting they believed that was done inconspicuously--but it showed rather obvious to my brother and me.  Most of the disagreements were about how my father spent little time with us considering he worked second shift and arrived home when we were all asleep, about money, and just generally about falling out of love.  It felt like waiting for the ticking of a bomb to stop, so the explosion could just happen and be done with.  My parents were on the very edge, and finally one of them took the first step.  I remember it like this.

As I sat on the floor of our living room drawing and occasionally taking quick glances up at the glowing light of the TV, JD from Scrubs was stating one of his internal monologues, while my parents sat close on the couch. The hushed conversation they were having behind me went unnoticed until my mom shot up from the couch and walked hastily to the kitchen with my dad close behind her.  Each word sounded just the slightest bit louder till my mom ushered both of them outside and slammed the door.  I had no idea what had happened between us all watching TV to that moment, but I was becoming more anxious by the minute. 

The sound of their arguing could be heard from outside, but I held back my curiosity and stayed where I was situated on the floor, waiting.  It didn’t take long for my brother to show up and take a seat close beside me.  We jumped as we heard the thunderous noise of the back door sliding open.

I overheard my dad mutter harshly, “You have to tell them.”    

Our parents came to stand in the entry of the living room. My mom had a terribly sad expression, and my dad’s face was hardened into an angry scowl.  The following moments were filled with condescending snarls from my father, tired sighs from my mother, my brother slamming a picture frame on the floor in anger and sadness, and me feeling completely consumed in fear of what was to come next.  It’s obvious to say that my parents soon after started writing up their divorce papers.

The first year of my parents’ divorce was strange.  Furniture was removed from the place I’d grown up in. I saw little of my mom but very much of my temperamental, spiteful, and manipulative father.  My brother had almost permanently locked himself away in his room.  I didn’t feel like I could really talk to any of my friends about what was going on, so I didn’t.  It caused my friendships to become strained, and I didn’t really want to fix them. When my mom had a day off, she’d spend it hidden away in her room, feeling sad and tired. I would try to make everyone happy but keeping my dad happy meant choosing him over my mom, which I could never do even though I did see her as the reason for the divorce because she was the one who wanted it.  There were many times when my father would say, “If you choose your mom, then I don’t want to see you guys anymore.  It’s your choice.”  I made my choice.

The next few years I saw my father less and less, which was honestly okay with me.  My mom became happier day by day.  My brother had finally stopped being so angry and started associating with the outside world more.  I can say that four years is enough time for life to be turned completely upside down, blown to bits, and rearranged to something more livable.