I only spot this much outward emotion from my mom when she’s not noticing me or forgets I’m here. Though after the divorce, I’ve seen this side of her more often. On a normal day, she’s sweet and subdued. Rarely heated. Almost never angry. She tries to bottle most dark sentiments, something I’ve learned to do.

As I creep from the corner, I gain a better view of my mom.

Just forty, she has kind eyes, a smooth pale complexion and rosy cheeks, but her usual put-together persona cracks beneath welling tears. She stands opposite a middle-aged man with light scruff, narrowed eyes, and a Miller Lite shirt. And I mentally take sides—I take hers, even if I’m supposed to remain nonpartisan.

I see him.

I see him hurting her.

I see him causing her these tears.

My mom who never asks more of me—when what I am is subsequently less.

I clutch onto the doorframe, watching as my dad crosses his arms over his burly chest.

He says to her, “We’ll never finalize this fucking divorce if your lawyer keeps putting this off.”

My mom inhales a shaky breath. Her nose flares and she fights tears again, straddling more sadness than rage.

No. Tell him to fuck off, Mom. Tell him you don’t want him. I bite my tongue, hoping she’ll stand up for herself.

“Please, Rob…” she cries. “Just come back home.”

My stomach is queasy. I just want her to kick him out, to grow the strength to rip apart the thing that causes her pain. Come on, Mom. You can do it.

I wish I had the bravery to help her, but my feet cement to the floor, weighed like shackles of tar-filled balloons.

Through his teeth, he sneers, “I’d rather burn in fucking hell than be with a woman who spent over seventeen years repeatedly lying to me.”

A chill races across my arms, and I swallow a lump.

“It has nothing to do with you, Rob.” Her voice trembles, and then tears burst forth in a guttural cry. It pierces me through the chest, and I stagger one step. I’m blown back.

Meanwhile, he just stands there.

He just watches in disgust.

How could he—

“You abandoned your son,” he says so passionately, so soulfully and hatefully that his face turns blood-red.

And I go utterly cold.

“Your fucking son,” he repeats with glassy eyes. “The one that I knew nothing about!” He points a finger at his chest. Vibrating—he’s vibrating in anger and pain.

I’m shaking with it too.

I don’t understand…

My dad licks his lips and adds, “How does the fact that you saw the father of your son on twelve separate occasions for two decades, not affect me?”

No.

I rock back.

He’s to blame.

Isn’t he?

He has to be.

Tears crest my eyes as I try to block out the truth. No.

Think about it, Willow.

I don’t want to. It’s easy believing one way for so long, to put all of my emotions in this one drawer that makes the most sense. It hurts having someone yank open the drawer and dump out its contents, destroying what I know is real.