Loving her scars

Crash

Chapter 2

Annabelle’s POV — Age 12

One night, I heard my parents arguing downstairs. It wasn’t unusual for them to have small disagreements, but this felt different. Their voices were louder, sharper, filled with something I couldn’t quite place at first. I got out of bed quietly and walked toward the stairs, moving carefully so they wouldn’t notice me. I just wanted to see what was going on.

When I peeped downstairs, the sight froze me.

My mom was crying.

Not the quiet kind of crying, but the kind that shakes your whole body. She looked broken. My dad stood in front of her, his face filled with guilt, like he didn’t even know what to say.

“Why? Why would you do this?” my mom demanded, her voice trembling. “I support you. I pay most of the bills behind the scenes and make the kids think it’s you. When you had your business, I stood by you. When you lost your job a few months ago, I took on extra shifts just to keep everything looking the same while your lazy self walks around gambling and drinking, calling it job hunting.”

She paused, wiping her tears, but it didn’t stop them from falling.

“Jacob, is this what I get for being an understanding wife? Thirteen years… thirteen years together, and you throw it all away like it means nothing?”

My heart was pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears.

“Vivian, please calm down,” my dad said softly, guilt written all over his face. “Think about your condition.”

Condition?

That was when it hit me.

She was pregnant.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she snapped. “You know I shouldn’t be stressed, so why would you hurt me like this? You know what, Jacob… I want a divorce.”

Everything inside me stopped.

A divorce?

No. That wasn’t possible. That only happened in movies. Not in my family. Not to us.

“Please don’t do this,” my dad begged. “Think about the kids. Think about everything we’ve built over the past thirteen years. This will destroy them.”

But my mom didn’t back down.

“My mind is made up,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I quietly walked back to my room, my head spinning, my chest tight. Tears rolled down my face as I tried to process everything I had just heard.

What went wrong?

Weren’t we happy?

Was everything I believed in just… fake?

That night, I didn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning, my thoughts racing, my heart heavy. I kept hoping that maybe I misunderstood, that maybe things would go back to normal in the morning.

But they didn’t.

The next morning felt strange. Too normal. Too quiet.

I went downstairs with a fake smile on my face. “Good morning, Mom. Good morning, Dad,” I said sweetly, like nothing had happened.

“Good morning, my sweet Belle,” my dad replied warmly.

My mom didn’t respond.

She just sat there, staring into space, like she wasn’t really there.

Dad reached for her hand gently. “Vivian, the girls are greeting you.”

She pulled her hand away immediately, like his touch burned her. The look she gave him was filled with pure disgust.

“I’m sorry, my babies. Good morning,” she said finally, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

My heart broke for her.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t supposed to know anything.

Breakfast felt heavy. Mom barely ate. Dad tried to talk to her, but she ignored him completely. I forced myself to eat just so they wouldn’t suspect anything, even though I had no appetite.

School wasn’t any better. I couldn’t focus in class. My mind kept going back to the night before, replaying every word, every tear, every expression.

“What went wrong?” I kept asking myself over and over again.

The next few months were hell.

They fought constantly, no longer caring if we heard them. The shouting, the insults, the tension—it filled the house and seeped into everything. I couldn’t escape it.

It started affecting me badly. My grades dropped. I began failing subjects, even literature, which had always been my favorite. I couldn’t eat properly, couldn’t sleep properly. I was constantly tired and emotionally drained.

I was only twelve.

Mom gave birth to my baby brother, Johnson, in the middle of all that chaos. Something that should have brought joy felt overshadowed by everything else. The house had become toxic.

My parents, who I once believed were deeply in love, started hitting each other. The arguments became more aggressive, more painful to watch. My dad didn’t stop cheating, didn’t stop drinking, didn’t change. If anything, he got worse.

Victoria was affected too. I could see it in her eyes. She wasn’t the same anymore. The sparkle she used to have was gone. She became quiet, withdrawn, like she was trying to disappear.

We didn’t talk about it.

We just lived through it.

Eventually, my mom made the decision to leave.

And this time, she didn’t hesitate.

She took us with her.

We left everything behind and started over somewhere new. But starting over didn’t mean things got easier. If anything, it became harder.

I watched my mom struggle every single day. She worked multiple jobs just to keep us going. She barely slept. She barely rested.

And then came something I didn’t understand at the time.

Postpartum depression.

She wasn’t herself anymore. She became distant, exhausted, sometimes cold. I didn’t know how to help her. I didn’t even know what she was going through. All I knew was that everything had changed, and nothing felt safe anymore.

At twelve years old, my world didn’t just change.

It fell apart.