It all started in Virginia. My father got hired for a new, better paying job, so the family had to move. I remember my mother had always envisioned this new house as the place where she and my father would retire and “grow old together.” It was a late afternoon, one Saturday, and my mother came stomping down the stairs, heading into the garage. Enraged, I heard my mother shouting, and then something shatter. I ran to the garage, just in time to witness my mother flip the coffee table over, and onto my father. She was screaming bloody murder, then turned around, charging back into the house, not even making eye contact with me. I had never seen my mother this upset before, ever. Wondering what was going on, I asked my father, “What happened?” He didn’t respond; he sat there with his coffee all over his shirt, head down, shaking his head like he was saying “No.” My father has never been much of a talker, at least not the way my mother is, so I retrieved back into the house, after Mom. I found her upstairs in her room crying, with her head down, buried in her hands. She was crumbled over the corner of the bed— almost falling off—looking paralyzed with grief. I wrapped my arms around her weak frame and asked her, “Momma what is the matter?” She paused, and then looked up at me with bloodshot, tear-flooded eyes and said, “We’re getting divorced; your father is in love with another
It all started in Virginia. My father got hired for a new, better paying job, so the family had to move. I remember my mother had always envisioned this new house as the place where she and my father would retire and “grow old together.” It was a late afternoon, one Saturday, and my mother came stomping down the stairs, heading into the garage. Enraged, I heard my mother shouting, and then something shatter. I ran to the garage, just in time to witness my mother flip the coffee table over, and onto my father. She was screaming bloody murder, then turned around, charging back into the house, not even making eye contact with me. I had never seen my mother this upset before, ever. Wondering what was going on, I asked my father, “What happened?” He didn’t respond; he sat there with his coffee all over his shirt, head down, shaking his head like he was saying “No.” My father has never been much of a talker, at least not the way my mother is, so I retrieved back into the house, after Mom. I found her upstairs in her room crying, with her head down, buried in her hands. She was crumbled over the corner of the bed— almost falling off—looking paralyzed with grief. I wrapped my arms around her weak frame and asked her, “Momma what is the matter?” She paused, and then looked up at me with bloodshot, tear-flooded eyes and said, “We’re getting divorced; your father is in love with another