Page 164 of When the Storm Breaks
My parents sit at the opposite end of the sectional, tucked beneath a thick blanket. Their socked feet peek out, lazily propped on the coffee table in a mismatched pattern—their legs clearly tangled beneath the fabric.
My dad’s hand rests between them, fingers loosely linked with my mom’s.
Casual. Easy.
Like it’s second nature to hold on.
The opening credits roll, and without looking away from the screen, my dad lifts their joined hands and presses a soft kiss to my mom’s fingers before resting them back between them.
Like he does every night.
I see the love between them. The ease of it.
Will I ever have that?
Will I ever feel that kind of happiness again?
The movie blurs by in a wash of color and sound, scenes floating across the screen without sinking in.
Before I know it, my parents are stretching, folding their blanket,tidying up.
“I got it,” I offer, waving them toward bed.
And I do. I’ve got it.
But I sit there for a few more minutes, stuck in place as the credits roll.
When the screen finally goes black, I blink back to reality.
I push to my feet, set the empty wine glass next to the half-finished bottle on the coffee table, then gather their dishes.
The quiet clink of glass against ceramic fills the kitchen as I rinse them and slip each one into the dishwasher. Then I return for my own glass and the bottle, hitting the lights with my shoulder on the way out.
I tell myself the same thing every night. It’s just a nightcap. Just something to help me sleep.
But I know the truth.
I’m going to start thinking about him, and I don’t want to feel it.
Still, I drain the bottle, tipping the last few drops into my glass, stretching it out as long as I can.
Sometimes I wonder if I overreacted. If I should’ve stayed. If I should’ve demanded answers instead of running.
But every time I think about the way he looked at me when he said her name, when he said he didn’t do it—like it broke him—I remember why I couldn’t.
Because if he was telling the truth, then I lost her. But if he wasn’t… then I lost him too. And I couldn’t survive both.
When the wine’s warmth finally dulls the edges, it feels like enough. That’s when I do the one thing I know I shouldn’t.
I sink to the floor beside my bed, moving slowly until I’m cross-legged, my back to the door. I don’t have to look to know exactlywhere it is. I keep it in the same place every night.
To anyone else, it’s just an old shoebox.
To me, it’s something else entirely.
My fingers hover over the lid before I ease it open. Even in the dim night light, the contents seem to glow.
A delicate pile of folded paper. Fragile things.
