Last week, I started a post series on the topic of Divorce. One aspect of the discussion will be a letter I have written to a kid dealing with divorce (shared over the course of several weeks). Another aspect I am introducing today. Weekly, along with the letter, I will be sharing some narratives I've written on specific memories I experienced over the course of my parents divorce. I hope it encourages you to tell your stories, to partake in discussion, to be apart of the conversation. In case you missed them, you can go back and read the Intro post and Letter to a Divorced Kid, Part I.
Thanks for being apart of the journey.
~ Steph
~~~~~
Maybe
One
word. It took only one word for my world to start to crumble.
She
gave me an unexpected answer. The day, imprinted perfectly in my
mind, was New Year’s Eve and I was dress shopping with my mom. The
Winter Formal was only a few weeks away, and it would be my first
official high school dance. I had missed the Homecoming Dance, due to
a prior family engagement, and regretted it terribly. There were so
many stories of what I had missed: boys I could have danced with,
songs I could have swayed to, laughs I could have exchanged, the
dress I could have worn. I didn’t know I would miss so much
more, only months later.
Mom
put the car in park, and absently opened the door with her left hand.
Her face, vacant. Her hair, unwashed. But she had
insisted we go out and find a dress. And after a week of barely
hearing her talk, holed up in her bedroom, I obliged.
I
struggled to concentrate on the myriad colors and cloth on the racks
in front of me. I couldn’t stop stealing glances of Mom, who
wandered aimlessly around the store. Every once in a while, her
arm would slowly raise to touch a dress, feeling the soft fabric
between her fingers. I began to worry that maybe something was
really wrong. Was
she sick?
I wondered. Did
something terrible happen that I know nothing about?
I
found a dress that met the stringent qualifications to make an
appearance at a high school dance, so we paid and walked back out to
the car. I let my mind wander as the ignition growled and the car
jumped to life. There was an uneasy feeling building in my
stomach, a question I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t bring myself to
give it voice.
Sometimes
we ask questions because we know the answer. Because we need the
answers to be true. To never change. These answers are the
constants in a life of variables. We have an arsenal of these
questions. We hold them dear because they give us comfort, give us
life. Because we know the answers, and as long as our answers
remain constant, our universe stays in place. We are safe.
Attempts
at small talk were futile at best. I wanted to dig into
whatever problem I was sensing. Are
you ok, Mom? She
answered with a shrug. Do
you want to talk about it?
She shook her head. Following the lead of my gut, I asked, Does
it have to do with Dad?
Eyes glistening, she gave me a small nod.
Asking
the question was inevitable. I mentally unearthed it from my
bag of Constants. The anxiety was building and I needed to find
comfort, fast. I needed to ask so that my axis did not tilt and my
world did not shift. I needed things to be ok. So I drew
in a breath and asked.
Are
you getting a divorce?
Silence.
Maybe.
Sometimes
we ask questions because we know the answer. To find comfort.
To be assured that the constants in our life were still constant.
That things are under control. That we are ok.
It
started with a small piece here, followed by a larger piece there.
Slowly, my world began to crumble, right there in the car, all
around me. With one word, the biggest constant in my life
became a variable. With one word, my axis tilted, and my world
began to fall apart.
Bit.
By.
Bit.
Would
I be ok? Would we
be
ok?
The
only answer I could come up with:
Maybe.
~~~~~
Read the next chapter in Divorce Memoirs: I Knew.
I hope you'll share a comment with your thoughts, questions and stories.
