Two houses. Two neighborhoods. Two addresses. Two bedrooms. Two kitchen tables. Two backyards. Two birthdays. Two Christmases. Two stepparents. Two lives, one at Mom’s, one at Dad’s. One house full of board games, cats, and the smell of home cooked meals. The other full of dog toys, white sage incense, and the shouts of soccer commentary. Back and forth between each one, a weekend here, a weekend there. The repeated transition of to and from. Leaving home and going back to it simultaneously. Missing where I am not yet happy to be home.
I’m five years old. “It’s not your fault,” my family therapist tells me and my sister as I play with the pink dollhouse and she cries on the couch beside me. It is something I had heard so many times but confused me. I already knew it wasn’t about me. I guess that was something I always understood.
I’m eight years old. “Please try not to forget anything else,” my teacher replies when I tell her I forgot my notebook at my dad’s house and wouldn’t be able to hand the worksheet in until I’m back at his house on Thursday. My grasp on the responsibility is slipping away from me, balancing households and homework.
I’m thirteen years old. “I could never keep track of all that,” my friend says as we are walking through the crowded hallway. I don’t say anything because I’m not sure how to explain to her how normal it is to me or that I don’t remember it any other way. It’s hard to miss what you can’t remember, but sometimes I think about who I would be and where I would be if my parents had made a different choice.
Two homes. Two halves of my heart split between each one.