Dad cleared his throat like that might somehow stop the tears rolling down his cheeks.
“We wish things could be the same, Sweet Pea,” Mom said, her voice cracking on my name. “And we’ll do our best to make sure things stay as close to the same for you as possible. We promise you. Right, Andre?”
Dad nodded firmly. “As little change as possible.”
“Then why can’t you just stay?” I asked again, but this time it came out more like a wail.
“I wish it could be that simple,” Dad said with a sigh. “But that’s not really fair to your mom. Or me.”
“We still love each other very much,” Mom said, her tears finally spilling over. “We’ll always be best friends, but more than that, we’ll always be your parents. Just as we always have been.”
And maybe that’s when it all started—this idea of two nearly identical houses and their promise to keep things as normal as possible. Mom and Dad talked for a while, and some of it I heard while some of it just felt like a ringing noise in my ears. Sometimes when I remember it all, I still feel the sting like it’s a fresh wound.
It’s easiest to forget they’re even divorced at all in the morning, like now, when I’m still curled up in bed and half-asleep. But then, like sunlight burning against my eyelids, I remember that no matter how hard Mom and Dad try, things will never be the same. I let out a long yawn and cling to Mom’s side like a koala as a last-ditch effort to keep her in bed.
“No fair,” she says and stands up. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she takes it out to look at her message. She grins from ear to ear and lets out a giggle.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Oh,” she says, caught off guard, and puts her phone away. “Just a funny text from your aunt.”
I groan, not yet able to shake myself free of sleepiness. “Come on. Lay down with me for just five more minutes.”
“I see what you’re doing,” Mom says. “You’re trying to tempt me with cuddles. Come on. Let’s move it. Just two more days until the weekend!”
Ahhh, the weekend. I can’t wait. But first I have to survive Thursday.Wait, Thursday! Holy cannoli!Suddenly I’m wide awake. The paper is running today!
I shoot up quick and scare Cheese off the bed. Without even a speck of grace, I stumble out of bed and race to the front door, where the paper is waiting.
This is it. What if I was totally wrong and they’d already sent the first letter to print? What if I messed up somehow and Mr. Joe knows I’m not Miss Flora Mae?
Only one way to find out.
I tear the plastic off the paper and open it up to the middle crease where the top of the page readsMISS FLORA MAE I?
“Whoa there,” says Mom from over my shoulder. “When did you develop such an interest in current events?”
I shrug and hold the paper to my chest. “Just a fan of our lovely neighbor’s advice column.”
“Hmmm. You know, I wasn’t always one myself, butI guess I’m starting to turn a corner. Must have been all those mornings hearing your father read her letters at the kitchen table.”
“I’m gonna get ready for school,” I say and slip past her into the bathroom.
“Did you just take the newspaper into the bathroom?” she asks through the door.
I sit down on the edge of the tub. “Maybe?”
“You’re too young to be a middle-aged man,” she calls out as the sound of footsteps heads toward the kitchen.
I hold the paper out and search for my letter.
“Oh. My. Word.” There I am at the bottom of the page. I mean, Miss Flora Mae, technically.
Dear Not a Spoiled Brat,
No matter which way you slice it, there’s nothing easy about watching your parents fight. No one knows how hard it is when the two people you count on most can’t deliver. But I guess parents are people too.
It’s probably easy to look at what’s happening and think that surely you could have prevented it. But that’s just about as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen nextand if your parents will weather this storm. Maybe they’ll make it and maybe they won’t.
