A Divorce Aftermath

The problem with marriage is commitment. At least that’s what my mother says. At fourteen years old, I can honestly say I’ve seen it all. By all, I mean marital problems. I’m probably one in a million kids whose parents are divorced, but in this 21st century, divorce is all too normal. The sad thing is that my most vivid memories of my parents marriage was them fighting. It would start with my father coming home late at night, or early morning I should say, reeking of Scotch. I’d be curled up in my bed with Buggy, the stuffed mouse I got the day I was born. As hard as I tried, tuning out the yelling and the slamming of dishes and fists never worked. My mother never wanted to believe that my father had been cheating on her since day one. I guess you can say she was hopeful in some cosmic way. Like any good parent, she tried to cover up the bruises and simply say, “He just had a bad day at work, that’s all.” After she’d say this, I’d tell myself silently with anger, “Everyday is a bad day in this hell house.” We were a disfunctional family, and my house was far from a home. Most kids long for that last period school bell to ring so they can run home and be amongst loving and caring parents. You know, the ones that have a snack waiting for you when you come home or even a hug and a kiss. The parents that actually sit down with you and take the time to ask you how your day was and offer you help with your studies. I would stay as late as possible after school just to avoid all the chaos. It’s not that my mother wasn’t a good parent, she was, she is, but with every slap, punch, or kick she endured, she slowly began to loose sight of her duties to this “family” and most importantly, who she was. I’m twenty years old now, and it has been over six years since the divorce. While most divorced parents attempt to begin dating again, my mother never did. Through all the pain my father put her through, she still loved him. For this, I don’t know why. They say love is hard to forget or fall out of, but I can’t comment on that. I have never been in love, and when I thought I came close to it, the guy ran scared, as they all do at some point or another. I never told my mother about my possible love for Nick, because I felt like she’d overreact about the situation, especially since she was a divorced woman in her now fifties. I did tell my best friend Stacey though. Stacey was literally, my savior. She knew the ins and outs of mine and my parents problems. She kept me sane. I had a good mother, someone she longed for her whole life, and she had an extraordinary father. She was daddy’s little girl. I never knew what that felt like, and I was beginning to think I never would. Stacey’s mother died when she was only two, she technically never knew her. Her father raised her like a mother would, with loving care. After the death of her mother, Stacey’s father never found another companion. He tried dating a couple of times, but Stacey’s mother would always be in the back of his mind. He was still in love with her. Stacey would often joke about it and say, “He’s waiting around for a back from the dead miracle.” Stacey realized it was hard for him to cope with, as it was just as hard for her to grow up without a mother figure. She encouraged her father to try dating again and even dating sights, but he’d ignore the fact that he needed a significant other to grow old with. No person is their right mind wants to live a lonely life and if they say they do, they’re in denial, so Stacey says. The other day I got to thinking about this one time when Stacey and I were at my house one night. It was raining real hard and my father had just got home from work, or shall I say a bar or another woman’s cheap motel room. Surprise, surprise, he began yelling at my mother for not having cooked any dinner. Stacey and I tried to tune him out, but I guess it was a little harder for her to do so than I. “Becca, can I ask you something,” said Stacey. “Sure,” I replied. “Has your father ever hit you?” I laid there in silence, contemplating whether or not I should tell her. I could hear her getting mad at me already for not telling her that he had hit me some time ago. “Just once, when I was about eleven or so.” She stood up and began to cry and yell in rage. “Why didn’t you ever tell me,” she asked. I didn’t know how to answer that. I guess in some weird way, I didn’t want her thinking that things were worse than she thought. “So how did it happen Becca?” I began fidgeting and looking around the room, trying to avoid what she had asked me, but she was persistent and continued asking me what had happened. I explained to her that one day when I got out of school, I came home to find that my mother wasn’t home. She had left me a note on the kitchen counter saying that she had gone to the grocery store to go shopping and that she’d be back in about an hour. My father, however, was home. He had, to my surprise, arrived early from work and I guess decided not to go drink afterwards. I went into his room and starting watching TV with him. “Get to your room Becca, I want to be alone,” he said. I didn’t listen. He looked at me sternly with evil in his eye. “Dad, I never get to spend time with you because you’re always at work or getting drunk,” I replied. I guess the drunk comment I made upset him because right after that, he got up off the bed, grabbed me by the arm, took off his belt, drug me out of his room, and hit me on the side of the head with his belt buckle. Today lys a scar on the side of my right eye. Instead of being angry that I kept this from her, Stacey hugged me as tears ran down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Stacey’s father has never raised a hand at a woman, and I believe he never will. He is an honest, genuine, good man, he’s what mother’s call a “rarity.” He and my mother have known each other almost all their lives. They went to the same school and ironically ended up subsiding in the same city. They were pretty close when they were younger, but once they got married they became distant, as do most people who decide to get married and have kids do. Stacey’s father never knew about my parent’s problems, nor did anyone else for that matter. At least that’s what my mother thought, but you can only use so much makeup to cover up bruises the size of baseballs. I had a feeling most people knew about the violence that went on in my house, but they never said anything, I mean not to my face anyway. Stacey and I would often talk about how perfect her father and my mother were for each other. We’d say over and over again, “I wish our parents would start dating each other.” Realistically, we knew that it either would never happen or take hard work for us to pull something out of our sleeves to make it happen. That is exactly what we did. The plan was to invite Stacey and her father over to my house for dinner Friday night, change things up a bit and catch up on old times. When I asked my mother about this, she simply replied, “Sure that sounds great.” Already, this seemed like it would be easier than I thought. Friday night came all too fast. I suggested to my mother what would be the perfect meal to cook and offered her my help. It would be a five coarse meal, ceasar salad, juicy t-bone steak, sauteed string beens, and fluffy homemade BLT potatoes. For dessert I would make my famous chocolate cream pie. For the beverages, there would be red wine for the parents and 7-Up for Stacey and I. My mother agreed that the meal sounded perfect. We were cooking for about three hours and 7:00 was almost here. We both rushed to get ready. Thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang. Just as I answered the door, my mother was walking down the stairs and everyone’s eyes were on her. She looked beautiful. I hadn’t seen her get that dressed up in a long time. “Hello Cynthia, it’s been so long,” said Stacey’s father. “It’s been too long Steven,” replied my mom. “You look great, you haven’t changed a bit since high school.” Stacey’s father threw compliment after compliment to my mother. At that moment, Stacey and I looked at each other and knew that an old kindle was relit. We talked and laughed all throughout dinner. I was happy to find that both Stacey and her father enjoyed it, being that my mother and I were in the kitchen cooking for what seemed like forever. It was already passed midnight and I was getting tired. “Well it’s getting late, and we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow Becca.” My mother and I were going to have a garage sale early the next morning to make some money for a spring getaway. As we walked Stacey and her father to the door, Stacey and I looked at each other as our parents said bye and gave each other a long hug. “Whenever you’d like, please don’t hesitate to call Cynthia,” said Steven enthusiastically. My mother shook her head and smiled. The night had finally reached it’s end. Five months have passed since that dinner night at my house. Needless to say, our parents have seen each other every day since!