In Summer We Started

1.

Valentina

Three weeks later.

Of course, Dad made sure to have all of his things moved out of the house on a Friday evening. At the end of the week, after ignoring us both since their fight, he pops up out of the blue. He would hardly spare a word to Mom. Distraught, she took herself to the kitchen and stayed there until he was done and gone.

Some nights, she would cry. Just cry. It was like it never ended. I swear she stayed up all night crying.

Dad still wouldn't contact us. Not even me when I tried.

Some nights, it got so bad, that to keep Mom in despair rather than anger, at times, I crawled into her bed to sleep. She wouldn't wrap her arms around me like she used to, but that's okay. I knew I was a big girl in her eyes now, but I didn't understand what was happening. How could I? One minute, Dad was here and the next minute, he was gone. I didn't try asking Mom for any explanations, because I knew she wouldn't give me one.

I tried to figure it out. I had what felt like puzzle pieces that had slivers of information from their arguments. I knew a bit of this and a bit of that, but I could never build the full picture. Every time I got close, I discovered something new; something that flipped everything I knew about them.

Sad didn't even begin to describe how it felt.

I almost got to that point of no return, too. That point where, for even a moment, I considered how much more I preferred seeing them fight.

Sometimes, I missed the noise. This background conflict that broke me away piece by piece was gone.

It took those parts of me with it.

The silence hurt more than their arguing. Because, at least when they argued, it meant they were trying.

Those times are done. Gone. At an end. And they won't come back.

Dad isn't coming back.

I'll never have the Mom I once knew, either. She's just as gone as he is, whether it be in person or not—Mom is a shell of who she once was.

I'm scared I'll end up the same. But honestly, I never really knew who I was, anyway.

All of this reminds me too much of a story I read somewhere in one of the novels I kept on my bookshelf. The couple in the book was always in disagreement, and one day, when the lady decided she had enough, she brought down a knife heavy on the man's head, and he slumped on the floor, dead. I was beginning to understand that not all marriages were rosy, and certainly not the best for someone, no matter how glamorized it was, but I didn't expect my father to move his belongings swiftly out the door.

When he went out that door for the last time—the image replays in my mind on repeat to torture me—the way my mother just stood in a corner, watching him with tears shining in her eyes. She would have done something, maybe communicated with him better, but she let him go. He wanted to stay away, and he did.

I knew what this meant: Dad was moving away. He was leaving us. I wasn't sure if he would return, and I'm still not, but every day feels more certain that he won't. But then I'd cried myself to sleep for the past couple of weeks and nothing had changed. Whether it is Mom's pain or mine, it doesn't matter. He won't be coming back.

Then, just yesterday, Mom finally told me that Dad had handed out the divorce papers. She'd signed them already.

I wasn't in either of their thoughts.

I wasn't in consideration.

I wasn't part of their selfish pain, but their desire for freedom, too. I was just here, on the side, doing my thing whilst they did theirs.

When Mom told me, it was a statement, not a warning. It happened. So be it. All it meant was that their marriage was annulled. She could've at least picked a better time, though. When she informed me, we were at the table having dinner, and I drew my seat back, slamming my fork on the table, leaving an indent with four, clear marks. I didn't bother answering her as she kept calling after me, telling me that I had no right to leave the table the way I did. I was too angry and sad to care. She'd delivered the news calmly as if it didn't unnerve her that the one-time love of her life was moving away. What was going to become of us? It hurt too much to think about-that the two people I loved the most had grown so far apart that they couldn't tolerate each other. The sole reason was that my father's debts were increasing at an alarming rate. I didn't know what he was doing with all that money, and I didn't care to know, but all I cared about was the emotional trauma that was going to follow.

That is the focus.

Me. What happens to me?

Mom might be okay, but I wasn't. Far from it. Although I understood why she wanted to be apart from him, still, it felt so wrong. How was I—we—going to survive?

In those final moments, seared into my mind, was how I stood by the door, staring at Dad who was loading his luggage and all of his belongings into a truck, with Mom assisting him in carrying them out. Earlier, she'd appeared like she felt the least bit remorseful about the decision she'd been forced to make, but now I knew better. She just wanted him gone, far, far away from our lives.

Dad's belongings were a little much and it took more than a few trips to and fro to settle everything, but mom didn't look tired at all. Her lean muscles bulged, and her forehead shone with sweat. Her blonde hair, which had been matted into a fuzzy cornrow, seemed to reflect the sun's rays. The sun was hot, almost too hot, and the floor beneath my feet burned.

To think, in these moments where I am numb and empty, that the thing on my mind was my least favorite thing about summer. The heat was stifling, and the days seemed longer than usual. One would also have to bathe several times, to erase the mix of sweat and other odors from their bodies.

If I had it my way, I would leave them to it. I would go, pour myself a warm, relaxing bath, ripe with bubbles and steam to smooth my skin and embrace it, too. As much as I itched for a bath, I couldn't leave. My legs stayed rooted to the spot as if frozen by ice.

When they were finally done with the luggage, Mom stood beside me, peering at Dad through the backdrop of the golden-brown sun. Mom's neutral expression, her face set in stone, sent a chill through me that day.

Returning my eyes to dad, my heart melted for him. He was leaving his family, the people he loved the most, I hope, and who he'd known for the greater part of his life, for good. If only I could've known.

Even weeks later, as I enjoy my bath, and try not to drift off into a deep slumber, I think of all the good times. I wasn't there, of course, but I heard the stories. The stories of when Dad and Mom met at a tuck shop. They'd both volunteered there, while in different colleges, and it was like sparks had flown in that moment, and within a few months, Dad proposed. Too soon? Who cares? They were happy.

They were happy when Mom gave birth to me a year after, and since then, she had to take care of someone else—other than herself and Dad. And they were happy even then.

So, to watch him go, at this moment, was a strangely excruciating feeling. There was no pain. Only this deep well of bubbling anxiety. I had so many questions. So many worries, thoughts, ideas. But he spared no words. Not as he opened his arms and nodded for me to give him one last hug. My eyes burned bright with unshed tears.

How could this happen?

How can I ever believe this is real?

When did things go wrong? How wrong did things have to get for the family to be split up for good? I moved towards him, my legs carrying me to where he stood by the side of his truck, but then I stopped. Dad wasn't any saint like I thought he was. Maybe he was initially, but not anymore. He smiled his big smile, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand; if there was one thing, I was certain of, it was that he'd caused this. He was responsible for our broken home.

If he hadn't gone neck deep into debt, however he managed it, then this wouldn't be happening. There must have been a core reason this all began. Mom wouldn't have to leave him. And divorce wouldn't be an option either.

Despite it all, despite everything, I made this choice.

I chose to run. To turn my back on him—them—everything.

I turned on my heels at the last minute and sprinted to my favorite place while growing up: the local lake.