Page 163 of When the Storm Breaks
And now that it’s here, it feels too much like love.
There’s a shift in the air behind me, and I don’t even register my dad’s voice until he finishes speaking.
“Smells good, right?” His tone is easy, casual.
But then he adds, “She hasn’t made it since you left.”
The words hit like a slow, sinking weight.
I was missed. I was wanted.
And I left something good—
For something that almost destroyed me.
People always ask why someone wouldn’t speak up. Why they’d leave instead of pointing fingers.
But what do you say when the only proof you have is a look? A silence? A name dropped at the wrong time?
I didn’t leave because I thought he killed her.
I left because I couldn’t live in the uncertainty anymore.
I left because I loved him too much to ask.
And I hated myself for that.
We eat together in silence. My parents don’t ask questions—they know I don’t want to talk about it, even if they’re not exactly sure whatitis.
I’m sure it’s its own kind of heartbreak—watching your already-broken daughter leave, only for her to return even more shattered than before.
So they talk about themselves instead, filling the space with easy conversation.
And lately, I’ve started to feel guilty for it. Like I’ve missed more than a few pieces of their lives. Like I lost something I can’t get back.
When the conversation fades and our bowls are empty, I push back from the table, gathering the dishes before they can insist.
The quiet clatter of utensils and the rush of water from the sink fill the silence. Behind me, I hear the soft pop of a wine bottle, the crinkle of cellophane, then the hum of the microwave heating a bag of popcorn.
It’s their thing.
Every night, they eat dinner, then curl up on the couch and watch a movie. They always ask me to join. Always make space.
I used to say no. Used to make excuses. But lately, I don’t have the energy to resist.
And honestly?
I don’t want to.
The dim glow of the family room TV spills into the kitchen—a quiet invitation. The pull of my favorite childhood blanket, the worn-in dip in my usual spot. It calls to me like a memory I don’t want to let go of.
By the time I finish the dishes and walk in, my spot is already waiting.
A wine glass.
A small bowl of popcorn.
An unspoken offer—like they knew I’d come around.
