Free Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff by Jack Canfield Page B

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    Now, as I lie in bed listening to my mom’s muffled cries, I realize that the moment has arrived. Although my mom and I have not always seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things, such as dating, driving, school, friends, life . . . right now my stomach is aching for her. Each of her sobs shoots through me like a dart piercing my chest. The agony is so great that I finally understand what a broken heart must feel like.
    I shuffle out of bed and quietly make my way down the long hallway towards the garage from where the voices seem to be coming. Slowly, I open the door wide enough to see but not be seen.
    The scene being played out by my parents makes me want to vomit. My mom is holding on to the bottom of my dad’s leather jacket. She is straining to hold him back, so that he won’t leave her. This is not the proud woman who once refused to accept my grandmother’s financial help back when my dad first lost his job. Her face is red, awash in tears, and her nose runs while she howls in pain. She has no pride; he is taking it with him.
    He grabs his coat from her and pushes her back with one hand. He tells her it’s over. “. . . It’s been over for a very long time, and we both know it.”
    She howls again, and through her wailing I hear her moaning, “No, no, no, no,” like some strange hypnotic chant. And then suddenly her tone changes to one of anger as she screams, “You were just going to sneak out in the night . . . weren’t you? . . . You’re a child. . . . You have no backbone, you coward. . . . I hate you, you pig!” She’s still not letting go of her grip on his jacket.
    He pulls away from her, and she’s left holding only his jacket in her hands. He kneels down, tossing his packed valise into the open door of our family van. Then he gets behind the wheel and, without another word, he backs up out of the driveway and out of our lives forever.
    Now all that’s left is the echo of her tortured cries. I’m not worried about the neighbors hearing what went on. They’re used to the sound of my parents’ war; each gave up their dignity a long time ago. We don’t know what shame feels like anymore.
    As my mom leans against the wall wailing in spasms of anguish, all I can think of is what I might have done to cause this. Was it because I talked back to my mother that time, when we were out having a nice family dinner? She got so angry with me, and I remember my dad told her not to lose her cool and that I was right. Her frozen glance across the table suggested that she did not at all like this friendly alliance my dad and I had formed. There was screaming and yelling and people were staring, but my parents didn’t seem to care. Next thing I knew, my dad stormed out of the restaurant for the refuge of the car.
    That was always the pattern: a knockdown fight followed by my dad retreating to some remote corner. My mother turned to me that night as we sat alone at our table for three and said, “Please don’t destroy my marriage. I don’t think I can live without him.”
    I felt sorry for her now and wondered whether I was the driving wedge between my parents. I was always Daddy’s little girl, and she was my rival for his affection. My mom described our relationship as black and white. If she said up, I said down; if she said fat, I said thin. It was not something I could stop myself from doing.
    I pulled the door to the garage closed and headed back to my room. Once inside, I pressed my forehead against the cool windowpane, hoping his car would be coming back. Maybe it was all a bad dream and soon I’d wake up.
    Then I felt her hand touch my shoulder. My rival, my sparring partner, took my head in her hands and turned it towards her. She wasn’t crying anymore as she pressed my cheek to hers, yet I could still feel the wetness of her tears. There were no words spoken between us that morning. For once, we both felt the