I never expected my parents to part. I always figured they were madly in love. From the morning kisses, to the luxurious, expensive gifts my dad would buy for my mom- I always assumed it was out of love. I thought, I thought, and the more I thought, the more I blamed myself. I knew I wasn’t the reason that the divorce papers were signed, I knew that it wasn’t me who made my father pack all his clothes in his navy blue Bricc’s suitcase. I always find it funny how I still remember the name- how I remember the wheels scraping against the floor as I begged him not to go. I remember every detail of that day. I remember how I wrapped my arms around his legs and refused to let go unless he promised to stay. He didn’t. What he did promise me though, was that he would come back in no time and that he would take my sisters and me out for ice cream at our favorite diner right down the street. Then again, my father was never one to keep his promises.
    

I waited for him every night on the front porch, clinging on to the stuffed, plush penguin he gave me for my birthday. My mind was filled to the brim with things I wanted to tell him. How I got an A on my spelling test, what I brought for show and tell, how I went to Alabama Adventure and slid down my first waterslide. Yet, that night never came and I was always forced to push those memories to the back of my mind because all I could think about was how he failed me time after time. I waited every night for three months. Now, you may not think that 3 months is a large span of time, but for my six year old self, it felt like 6,000 years. And for every one of those nights, my sisters would ridicule me and torment me on how our father would never come back. They would try to flood my mind with the idea that he was nothing but a coward and a liar. How could they possibly think that about he man who stood by our side for so long? How could they betray him the way they did and let go of the memories so easily? Of course, I never fed into their lies and I never gave them the satisfaction of seeing me cry every time they insulted the man who gave us everything. 
    

The nights continued to consist of the overwhelming question that was: “Will he ever come back”? Of course I would always come up with excuses and reasons as to why he never made an effort to drop in for at least twenty seconds. Twenty seconds… that was all I needed. Twenty seconds to tell him how much I missed him, twenty seconds to beg him with all my might to return to the person who needed his love the most. Yet, time is a tricky thing and is rarely ever in a persons’ favor.
    

During the course of these three months I hardly took the time to see how my mother had been coping. She was the one who told my father to leave his family behind, to pack all of his bags and never come back. This only made me resent her entirely and drive my focus to how the divorce affected me. No one else. Little did I know that she was the one who was suffering the most. Looking back on it, I was selfish -foolish, even- to have my priorities fixated on my own life rather than my family’s’. I spent too much time trying to look for explanations and answers when it had been directly in front of me all along: The mixed scents of perfume, the long business trips, the empty strings of “I’m sorry” that spilled from his lips and stained my mothers’ heart like red wine on a pallid carpet; they were all signs.
    

I stormed into my mothers’ room and was held to disbelief as I witnessed the strongest woman I have ever known, to be completely broken. She was lying on the couch that was positioned next to the window, her head isolated in the direction of the trees swaying outside. I noticed that she hadn’t dared go on the bed that my father used to sleep in as it was left untouched and perfectly made for the past three months. My knees suddenly became shaky as this was the first time I had witnessed the woman I looked up to the most, in her most vulnerable state. I had no idea what to do, and I had no way of approaching her that would cure her from this hurt. I wanted it to end. I wanted to make her grief go away, but I didn’t know how. The more I forced myself to walk towards her, the more my feet felt as if they were glued to the ground. And then she looked at me. She looked at me with red tinted cheeks and puffy eyes filled with weariness. Except, the minute she turned towards me, I became the center of her attention. I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt the first tear hit my wrist and descend to the tips of my fingers. I also hadn’t realized that, that was the first time my mother had moved from her spot for the first time in months. She inched towards me and knelt down on both of her knees so she could be my height. And then ever so delicately, she brushed her finger under my eye and wiped away the tears that had yet to fall. She proceeded to softly “shush” and tell me everything was going to be okay while she held me as if I was her entire world. Was seeing me cry all it took to bring her back to reality? I was confused to say the least. Yet, as she was holding me in her arms, I realized how strong of a bond we had. How our memories in the past held a special place within our hearts, but how we acted in the present really defined who we were. And I swear, within that moment, we knew we could overcome anything.