When My Parents are Getting Divorced

He waved his hand, and my mother staggered back, her back striking the sharp corner of the cabinet. She screamed in pain, then crouched down, curling into herself.

Mom stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. Dad had never laid a hand on her before, no matter the situation.

"Don't touch my mother." I shoved him away with all my might, but against an adult, I was like a feather trying to hold back a storm.

"Look at these bruises, then look at Mom's injuries," I said, rolling up my sleeves, my eyes brimming with tears, "What power do we have to bully Grandma? You're not fit to call yourself my father."

"Grandma calls Mom cursed every day. I can't even scrape together the 100 bucks for textbooks. Do you even care about us?"

His response was a slap across my face, the sting burning into my skin.

My words cut deep, humiliating him. He slammed the door on his way out.

I helped Mom onto the bed, and heard her whisper, "Elizabeth."

"Mom, let's just get you a divorce," I murmured.

She stroked my head with her cold hands, her face ashen, "Elizabeth, you don't understand."

I wrapped my arms around her, trying to warm her with my own body heat.

I might not understand everything, but I knew that if Mom stayed in the Miller family any longer, it could kill her.

After school, I didn't head home.

The mountain village was miles from town. I sat on a tractor, the bumpy road jostling the vehicle.

Following the path Mom once showed me, I found my way to Dad's workplace.

I hid behind a tree, needing to confirm just one thing: whether he had a mistress.

This time he came back, he was unusually polished, a faint perfume clinging to him.

It was a scent I recognized—only older girls wore it when they visited from the city.

Under the harsh summer sun, even in the shade of the tree, sweat soaked through my shirt.

A man in a white shirt stepped out of the office—it was Dad.

Beside him was a woman in a red dress, her hair beautifully styled, clutching his arm.

A wave of bitterness surged through me, tears hitting the dirt, unbidden.

Even though I'd suspected it, the reality stung, leaving me angry, resentful, and heartbroken.

From then on, he was no longer my father.

When I got home, I stopped taking orders.

When Susan tried to scribble in my textbook, I locked my door and kicked her out, ignoring her tears.

Grandma demanded I wake at four to cook; I slept until seven, then grabbed my bag and dashed to school.

The beatings and scoldings grew worse.

After each one, I'd run to Mom, bruised and battered, wiping away tears.

"Mom, I just want to be like Susan, is that so wrong?"

"Mom, it hurts."

"Mom, I need to get out of here."

Eventually, I stopped talking about leaving.

All I could do was whisper in my sleep, "Mom, I want to die. Is this what I have to live for?"

I could feel her embrace tightening.

The woman in the red dress, Rebecca Turner, worked in the same office as David Miller.

Mom was doing laundry for the whole family, and I was fetching water.

Rebecca pushed open the gate and walked in, wearing that same red dress, now stretched over a slightly rounded belly.

"You're David's wife?" She looked down her nose at us, her fingers curling, "No wonder he's not into you."