When I was 14, I was settling into bed after I finished my science homework. I remember falling asleep to the soft giggles coming from my parent's room, and I smiled, happy my parents were still in love to this day. But I soon realized that those giggles didn’t sound like my mom at all. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. I was being paranoid. This same thing happened when I was little. I heard weird noises coming from my parents room, so I went to check it out. Turns out it was just the TV and they were both in bed, slowly drifting off to the sound of canned laughter and bad jokes. But this didn’t sound like a TV at all. I shivered as my brain almost switched off for the night, when I heard my bedroom door open. I looked up and saw my mom in the doorway, her teeth glowing a bright white against the shine of the moon coming through my open window. “Goodnight, Jess. Sleep well, okay?” But I still heard the giggles, even though my mom was standing right in front of me. She seemed to have heard it, too, because I saw her frown and her forehead wrinkles become deeper as she closed the door. It was silent for the rest of the night.

When I was 15, I got home from school to see dinner waiting on the table. My parents were sitting across from each other, not talking. I shivered as I took my jacket my father got for me off of my arms, hanging it on the small coat rack next to our door. I walked over to the table, sitting next to my mom. She passed me a plate of chicken and smiled, but that smile soon faded when she made eye contact with my father. I was confused on why they were acting so weird, but I decided to shrug it off. He cleared his throat and took a bite of his food. I saw my mom look directly at the table, and I did the same. I felt my body shake, even though it wasn’t cold. The tension between my parents seemed to do the trick.

When I was 16, I was somehow still oblivious. My parents only ever talked if I started the conversation. But I assumed they just didn’t want to talk in front of me. I remember walking into my parent's room to ask my father if he’d seen mom, and seeing a swish of something hair-like going into the closet, and the smell of cheap perfume illuminating in the air. I shivered as I glanced at my father on the bed, a nervous smile creeping across his face. I quickly turned around and walked to my room, passing mom in the hallway as she was coming out of the main bathroom. Her hair was messy and damp and she looked tired, dishevled, and sad. I glanced into the bathroom, but I didn’t see any bottles of perfume on the counter. I sneakily inhaled by my mom, but she smelled like nothing. 

“Honey, it’s late. Time to go to bed.” I nodded and started walking. She probably just took a shower, that’s why she doesn’t smell like the perfume. But what was that thing I saw going into the closet? I shivered as I opened my bedroom door. I looked over at my window, but it was closed. Maybe I need to get a thicker jacket.

When I was 17, my parents sat across from me and told me they were getting a divorce. I went into a state of shock. Why would they do this? Weren’t they happy? Weren’t they in love? My parents didn’t answer any of my questions. They just sighed and walked out of the room. I shook with cold as I wrapped my arms over my torso. I wanted to follow them, but I decided not to after I heard screaming and yelling and blaming and crying. I lied down on my bed, still not understanding why they would do this. I grabbed my phone, put in my password, opened Google, and asked “why do parents get divorced?” But I got no real answer until the court date.

The court date finally came. I sat behind my mom in the stands, my entire body shaking from the cold. I wanted to grab the jacket my father gave to me, but mom grabbed my hand and led me out to the car before I could. I protested, but I stopped talking after my mom’s choked up voice said, “Jessica, please. I don’t need your whining today.” Any normal day I would be angry at her for saying that, but today I knew she needed a break. So I sat in the front seat, staring at that brown, leather jacket in the window slowly get smaller as we got closer to fate. I sat and watched the judge talk, not listening to what he was saying, the words sounding blurry. I looked to my left at my father, his face as hard as a stone. My parents always told me, “Jessica, never let fear get in the way of what you love.” Why were they not doing the same? But then I started to breathe heavily, thinking about how I could have missed all the signs. The unfamiliar giggling as I lie in bed, trying to sleep. The cold stares from my father to my mother as we silently ate dinner. The cheap perfume wafting through the air when I opened my father’s door. The avoiding of my questions. It was all so obvious now as I sat behind my crying mom and my smug father. I could tell he cared, but not as much as I thought he did. As I heard my mom inhale, preparing for another set of tears to flow, I started to cry as well. I haven’t cried in a while. Not even when they told me about the divorce. The last time I remember crying was two years ago when I was 15. I got hit on the forehead with a baseball in class. The tears came automatically, even though I tried to stop it. I pressed the balls of my hands hard into my eyes, but the liquid seeped through the cracks as I sat in the gym, hiccuping from the air I wasn’t taking in as to not be embarrassed. But clearly, I was too late. Back then, I thought that gym class was my biggest problem. But now, it was all hitting me at once. My father, sitting there without a care in the world. My sweet mom, sobbing as she lost everything she’d ever known. I watched my grandma, who decided to show up for moral support, wrap her arm around my shoulders and pull me in tight as I sobbed harder than my willowing mother. Over the years, I’ve noticed she’s started looking older, even though she’s only 36. She was young when she got pregnant with me. A freshman in college who thought her life couldn’t get any better. But 9 months after it started, it ended. She had a screaming baby who didn’t know how much of a burden she was to her mother. My father stuck around, due to his family’s beliefs. But I guess those beliefs were useless now.  When I was 14, somebody asked if she was my aunt. When I was 15, somebody asked if she was my step-mom. When I was 16, somebody asked if she was my grandma. All those times, I laughed it off. But I knew how young my mom was. I didn’t know why people thought she was an older lady. She looked young to me. But now that I think about it, it’s because I was used to seeing her tired, worn out face. The bags under her eyes sunk deeper every passing day, dark like a hole your childhood dog dug when you weren’t watching. The wrinkles on her forehead became more prominent like small, but noticeable caverns on the moon everytime I heard yelling coming from their room. Her eyes became more dull like the rock you inevitabley kept in your room when you were small everytime my dad came home from work. If 17 years ago my mom wasn’t as careless, would she be hurting today? Would she be with a man who loved her no matter how many mistakes she made? Would she have a small toddler named Jessica running around her small apartment in her hometown? But I didn’t want to think about that. Because now, at 17, somebody asked if I was okay. I nodded into my grandma’s shoulder, but quickly started shaking my head. She caressed my hair, something she always did when I was little as she slowly rocked me to sleep on her chair. She always read to me when mom had to work late and my father was much too careless to step up to bat. Staying up until 10 pm and drinking hot chocolate while she rubbed my head, reading me a story, are some of the best memories I have. Her and my mom were the only important females in my life. My mom sacrificed everything for me. She was going to college to become a doctor, but quickly had to drop out to take care of me. I was such a sassy toddler, and now I wonder if my mother ever regret her decision to keep me. But I knew she loved me, even if she didn’t always show it. I didn’t exactly talk to my father that much, but when I did, he was silent and didn’t seem like he wanted to speak with me. I talked to my mom about it when I was a child, but she always told me it was because he was tired. I always seemed like a burden to their marriage, even though my mom told me multiple times that I was the best thing that ever happened to her. That was pretty hard to believe now.   

 Hours passed as I sat there, tuning out anybody talking. Eventually, my mom tapped my shoulder and I look up at her tear-stained cheeks. I looked to my grandma, and she nodded, smiled, and unwrapped her arms from around my shoulders. Mom led me outside, my father close behind. 

“Jessica, I want you to listen to me closely,” she said and she bent down on her knees, her hands on my shoulders. “Your father and I haven’t been in love for quite a while. We were just kids when we got married. It was you who brought us together. We know how much you think we are selfish, but we promise you, we aren’t doing this to hurt you.” I looked up at my father, him holding eye contact for the first time I can remember. I shivered slightly, but it seemed as if it had gotten a little warmer.

“I know we always say ‘never let fear get in the way of what you love.’ But if you don’t love something, don’t let guilt get in the way of you being happy. This whole experience of raising a beautiful child together and being married helped me realize that not everything can be perfect, and sometimes things change.” I nodded and hugged her, grateful for her words. I opened my eyes and saw my grandma by the doors with her jacket on. Her mother and father got divorced long before my mom was born. Grandma always described that time as cold, like she was always shivering, even though it was summer. But she finally accepted the fact that people can stop loving each other, but that doesn’t mean they’ll stop loving you. Grandma was always warm. She was warm everytime we hugged, high fived, and when she read me stories late at night. She was always in a cheery mood, and I finally understood why: because the cold pain had gone away.

I gladly accepted the scarf my mom knitted for my birthday. I hugged her as I stood up, ready to go to my father’s house. It had been four months after the trial and, I accepted the fact that not everything can be perfect. My parents loved each other in a way, but they stopped. I grabbed the coat father bought for me and put it on. I looked back at the table with my mom’s scarf. I quickly grabbed it and put it around my neck. I smiled as I felt warm for the first time in years. I loved both of these gifts. I waved goodbye to my mom as I closed the door and walked to the car, prepared to see what more gifts my father had for me.