You could say I was woken up when I was eighteen. And it was rude.
I think it would have been easier if it had happened when I was five or six, or maybe even ten. Instead, I spent my entire life thinking my family was the epitome of the American Dream.
Family pictures of the four of us suddenly found themselves relocated to my bedroom. My father suddenly found himself relocated to a hotel room. And luckily for my brother, unluckily for me, he had relocated to college the previous year.
It was the death of all things familiar. To my mother, I was that big red spot encompassed by many red circles. The brunt, the repercussions. She didn’t mean to do it. I really believe that. But the words, the screams, the cries…..expecting me to comfort her every move when I hated her for choosing to file. What I hated even more was that she didn’t even tell us. Not one of us. Not even Dad. We all knew times were tough, but nothing. Not a word.
I spent countless nights wondering what went wrong. My childhood seemed so perfect. My dad, an incredibly smart man, had a very successful job. My mother, very talented, ran and owned a successful dance studio. My brother and I were good kids. The four of us would play Nintendo. Actually, my brother and I rarely got a turn. My parents loved Contra. We were happy. I was naïve, but not naïve enough to think that we were perfect. We had our arguments and I had my fair share of swats and groundings. However, whatever the situation, we always got through it…..together. Together was all I knew. Together was all I wanted. I waited three days to tell anyone about it. I would think, maybe I shouldn’t say anything. Maybe it won’t really happen. Wrong.
Were they really always happy? Was it a lie this entire time? How can something supposedly so great become something so broken?
The house felt so wrong, so broken, so dark. My brother sympathized with my mother, I with my father. He and I didn’t conflict about the incident with one another, but it was hard to understand how the other felt because we looked at the situation so differently. He had been hurt by my father, I was being hurt by my mother.
The only light, my one glimpse of hope, was my very best friend. He was there for me, cared for me, and took me places so I didn’t have to be at home. Church being one of these places. I had been saved when I was twelve. But looking back now, I didn’t experience the true meaning, the true glory of God’s grace until I became a follower of Christ, at eighteen, became baptized, and knew what it meant to live my life for Him.
The rest of my family was supportive, but no one (in my immediate family), I felt, really understood. I began to lock myself in my room and read. I read the bible, books about God’s love and Grace, and anything I could get my hands on that pertained to grace and redemption. I began to view life in a very different light. While my whole world was in an uproar, I found stability in God and stability in a wonderful friend, Mark. I began to discover the truth about my parents divorce and began to find sympathy in my heart for my mother. And with sympathy, forgiveness.
After my decision to move out, my mother and I were able to figure out how to become close again, and even more, we became better friends than we had ever been. My relationship with my father was always strong and forever will be. My brother was also there for me the entire time, but because of the confusion of this event, we became better friends and are now able to better understand one another.
Though everything I once knew was pulled out from under my feet, leaving me on my behind….we now have found a new normal. It isn’t the same, and it isn’t ideal, but we have come to a place of peace and forgiveness, and have found a way to exist in happiness once again. Just not all together. My parents hadn’t seen each other since their divorce until my wedding four months ago. I married Mark, my very best friend, who stood by my side through this trivial time. My parents, having raised me together, sat together, laughed together, and cried together. My brother, standing so handsome in his tux, teary eyes filled with joy. He always was my biggest fan.
It may have been easier if it had happened when I was five or six, or maybe even ten. But I wouldn’t have the wonderful memories that I hold so dear, and my parents wouldn’t be able to experience the joy of their children, and the monumental events in their lives, so fully without one another.
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