When my parents divorced, I didn’t cry. No tantrums, no begging. It felt like a weight lifted. They were strangers under one roof, pretending to be a family no one believed in. Peace came not from love—but from the silence ending. I had known for a long time that this wasn’t how love was supposed to feel.
The silence in our house was loud. No fights, but no love either. Dinner was mechanical, cold, forgettable. They spoke like neighbors, not partners. Two shadows passing in the same hallway, living separate lives in one broken space. When they said it was over, I already knew it had been for years.
Years later, I started nudging my mom to date again. She smiled like she didn’t need it, but her eyes told the truth. Then one day, she met someone. She sounded alive—hopeful in a way I hadn’t heard in years. She invited me to meet him. I brought a bottle of wine and my curiosity.
But when I walked in and saw him, my world tilted—Marcus. My ex. My mom froze. He stammered. I walked out before dinner was served. And love, once again, became complicated. She ended it the next day, quietly, sadly. And I still wonder if either of us will ever really find what we’re looking for.
