When I was little, I would stand between my parents, hold my tiny hands out, and yell “Stop fighting!” The thing is, I used to remember it fondly. It was like some kind of game to me. I didn’t realize how messed up that was until I looked back on it in middle school.

I was an energetic blonde six-year-old who thought that staring at the sky counted as playing soccer. But one day, my mom didn’t drive my brother and I home after the game. Instead, we went to Great Wolf Lodge. I had never been before and they were having some sort of special event where little kids went on a scavenger hunt with battery-powered wands. Obviously, I thought I was in heaven.

But when we got into our hotel room, my mom sat my brother and I down and told us that her and our dad were getting a divorce. I was six, I was in my newfound paradise, and I didn’t actually know what the word ‘divorce’ meant, so I didn’t really care. Why would I care about some fancy word when I had access to an indoor waterpark? My brother was ten at the time, so it probably hit him harder than it did me, but I never bothered to stop and ask him.

I don’t really remember the time between the hotel and the move. I wish I could go back and ask that little girl about the thoughts going through her head. But, at the same time, I really don’t want to know. For one, that little girl would probably start blabbing about something completely off-topic - which hasn’t changed much. The second reason would be that I am who I am because of my experiences, and changing my knowledge about those events would change me.

I do remember going to couples’ therapy. I know it sounds crazy. Why would a six-year-old be at couples’ therapy? I don’t know either. I just remember some fancy doctors’ office which featured a giant playroom fully stocked with Mr. Potato Heads. Again, six-year-old heaven. But I didn’t realize what it was at the time. I probably didn’t figure it out until I was at least fourteen. The main part about looking back on this that freaks me out is how little I was aware of all this conflict going on around me.

I started at a new school in second grade. My brother was going to move from elementary to middle school anyway, so he just stayed where he was supposed to be going. We stayed in the same town I had lived in for almost my whole life. Of course, my previously-stay-at-home mom couldn’t afford the same neighborhood as both of my parents.

But my parents were still on okay terms. They’re kind of friends now, nine years later. My dad lives in an apartment a mile away. I’m allowed to go to whichever house whenever I want. The divorce didn’t affect me, not really. But sometimes I think of what could have happened. I think about that tiny blonde four-year-old trying to end her parents’ endless yelling.

It makes me think about the tiny blonde four-year-olds who don't get to see both their parents whenever they want. The kids who didn’t have it as easy as I did. The kids who don’t even know one or both of their parents. I think about all those kids and I realize I should be thankful for my two supportive, healthy parents.

Sadly, this story doesn’t belong to just me. It belongs to my brother, my parents, my whole family. Stories like this belong to half the kids in America. But I’ll never know those stories. I probably won’t even learn my brother’s point of view. I only have my own stories to tell, and I hope sharing mine will reach the heart of some other tiny blonde four-year-old.