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Lydia Griffin (Class of 2026) is pursing majors in English and Philosophy.
This piece is an attempt at recalling the feeling of being caught in the consequence of adversity within a home. Though my parents did not intend for it, their fighting created a feeling of fear within me that I can, if I were to focus on it, feel still. What remains critical to the integrity of this memory, however, is the love my parents displayed in their reconciliation, a love that I remain conscious of today without even needing to focus on it, as it is so fundamental to who I am. There is, of course, more to the fight than the simple dialogue I framed it within but the importance is purposefully not directed to the actual fight; instead, it remains on their perseverance in the face of conflict and what that meant for their daughter, an unknown witness, who carries that with her when she encounters adversity as well.
I’m huddled at the top of the stairs, completely out of sight but well within earshot of their fight.
The combined stress and lack of sleep between the two of them has given them both a particularly short fuse. There’s a lot of whisper-yelling (all the kids are asleep, after all—except for me, though they both remain unaware of that), and insults are said that shouldn’t be said, accusations made that are unwarranted. After it all, after Mom has left the kitchen and retreated to her and dad’s bedroom, I peek around the corner and watch as all the anger drains out of my father like a punctured hot air balloon, replaced instead by what looks like bitter, gut-twisting guilt.
A half hour passes in which my father looks irritated and half-crazed, sitting on the couch in thought.
I sit there, hidden, feeling the bile push at my throat, and wonder about how they’ll divide up the six of us in the split. I suppose it will be three siblings with each parent, rotated between the two of them in weekly or bi-weekly intervals.
I start thinking about which of my brothers and sisters I’d prefer to be kept with in these swaps, and then feel the tears push at my eyes when I realize that I’d really like to stay with all of them; even Johnny, who stole my Belle barbie on Sunday and married her off to his Spiderman figurine without my permission. Even him.
The house is still and silent when Mom creeps out of their room again. From the hallway, she can see into the living room.
Dad has shifted so that he’s lying there on the couch, on his back, staring at the ceiling. There is a streetlight outside the window and it illuminates his face. He is very much awake. He lifts his head when he hears the whisper of Mom’s socks against the carpet.
They stare at each other for a long time.
"Hey," He says finally.
"Hi," She whispers back. She hesitates at the doorway. I tilt my head further around the corner to catch it, leaning into and trusting the shadows.
Dad shifts, turning onto his side, and there’s just enough room for another person to squeeze in beside him but only barely. He pats the empty space. "C’mere," he says, and my mom looks helpless to deny him.
She fits against my dad as perfectly as ever, and from my little perch, it looks both comfortable and heart-aching.
"I’m sorry," she murmurs, her eyes closed so she doesn’t have to look at his face, as though he could refuse her anything.
Dad doesn’t ask why she’s apologizing, even though it could be for any number of insults. He just holds her for a while, his breathing loud in the silence but soothing, a deep inhale-exhale that mom automatically imitates.
Dad has shifted so that he’s lying there on the couch, on his back, staring at the ceiling. There is a streetlight outside the window and it illuminates his face. He is very much awake. He lifts his head when he hears the whisper of Mom’s socks against the carpet.
After a long time, he says, "I’m sorry too.”
The breath that shatters out of mom’s chest sounds like maybe she’s been holding it for a while.
"I love you," She whispers back.
"I know. I love you too."
He kisses her then, a gentle brush that settles on the cusp of her lips. She leans into it, pressing close to Dad.
Silently, I tilt my head away, pushing the heels of my hands against my eyes, tired with unsplit tears.
I peek into the boys’ room on my way back to my own and the hallway light falls onto Johnny’s sleeping form, illuminating the Spiderman figurine clutched in one hand, my Barbie in the other.
Maybe, I think, I’ll let Belle and Spiderman remain married.
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