I could just imagine her, sitting, top of the stairs,
Brown Berber carpet, head in hands.

“Your sisters are mean.
Your dad doesn’t understand.
For years I put up with this.
Enough.”
*Sob*

I can’t say that there was a single turning point. It has been more like a series of storms rolling through town, in seasons, over 25 years. All any of us could do was try to hold on to something, anything, that was anchored down. For me, those anchors were my grandparents, books and my fantasies — I’d watch airplanes as they ascended over the mountain ridge and imagine they were all bound for California, where I was sure, rock-n-roll and endless sunshine awaited. I dreamed of the day it would be my turn.

My parents are splitting up. Broadly, this means the tethered family relations: parent and child, siblings, and partners will have to be undone and reconfigured in some new cat’s cradle. Specifically, it means the couch is no longer going to be the scene of my dad snoring from under a blanket, while Wolf Blitzer and CNN blare all night long.

None of this is going to be simple.

Their story is a familiar one: young love expedited out of its simplicity too soon, by way of an unexpected pregnancy. My mom was still a teenager when she donned her wedding dress, two months pregnant. As a kid, I loved to flip through their wedding album and marvel at how they were once so young. The image so blazed in my mind’s eye, I can recall it without effort: the two of them posed under a white, wicker arch, my dad in a maroon tux with his wild Gene Hackman hair and my mom, peeking from under an enormous, white, lace bonnet like a baby lamb. I would sarcastically point out how I’d been there too, how I’d eaten wedding cake from the womb.

In all honesty, I’ve always felt responsible, in some way, for their happiness. They married each other, but my role was implicated from the start, a reason and guarantee of the commitment; a sort of patron of their marriage. So, I watched and worried: through the countless fights, the yelling and quiet talking behind closed doors, the separations and reconciliations, the struggle to pay the bills, and the joys and frustrations of raising three daughters. And in all honesty, I’ve very often, resented this role.  I’ve expressed that frustration through rebellion, tears, and outbursts.

“You are my favorite mistake,” my Dad encapsulated once when I was at my peak of teenage angst.  It is the kind of candid, real talk I can expect from these parents of mine and something I have grown to respect and appreciate.

Through the years, it eventually became clear to me — they needed to save themselves in order to save each other. Maybe . . . HOPEFULLY, that is what they will do now. I tend to keep my hope at bay on this topic, but I feel this time, perhaps something is shifting.

All I know for now is they are both turning to me from thousands of miles away for comfort and counsel, and I know, I must see them through this too.