Joanne considered her options for supper: chicken soup with garlic bread, beef vegetable casserole with fluffy white rice, or some crumbed chicken fillet filled with pepper sauce? The thirty-two-year old college lecturer rolled her eyes heavenward, struggling to decide what to eat. “Nick!” she called to her nine-year-old son watching Jurassic World: Dominion on Netflix in the bedroom they shared. “What would you like for dinner tonight, buddy?” “What are the choices, Mom?” Nick asked as he walked into their tiny but neat kitchen. Joanne and Nick were living in a one-bedroom separate entrance since her divorce three years ago. Kevin, her ex-husband, had run up such huge debts that they couldn't continue staying in the house they had been renting. Once Kevin had lost his job, his behavior had changed. He became frustrated, started drinking too much, and developed a truly tempestuous temper. It was crystal clear to Joanne that their marriage was doomed. Divorce seemed the best route for her and Nick. Kevin had disappeared out of their lives after the divorce had been finalized as if he had only been a figment of their imagination. Nick had long ago stopped to ask after his father. “Well,” Joanne said, “we've got three leftover choices,” she said, listing the three dishes. During the Christmas season, Joanne tended to cook a number of dishes which she could warm up, saving her from having to cook every night. They often had a surplus of food though, forcing Joanne to either give away whatever they hadn't eaten to street beggars, or discarding the food. “Hmm, those are really hard choices, Mom,” Nick complained. “I know, honey, but choose one, please.” “Actually, I'm not all that hungry tonight. Can't I just have some milk and cookies, please?” Nick asked pleadingly. Before Joanne could answer him though, her cell phone rang. She was surprised to see that the caller was Simon, one of the senior students she was mentoring. He was a polite nineteen-year-old of whom Joanne was quite fond. “Simon, what a nice surprise to hear from you,” Joanne said, simultaneously nodding at Nick to let him know he could have his milk and cookies. “I'm really sorry to bother you this late, Miss Harper, but I wanted to ask you for something,” Simon apologized. “Nonsense. It hasn't even gone eight yet. What can I do for you?” Joanne asked. She intuited that Simon was embarrassed about whatever it was he needed, so she waited patiently for him to formulate his request. Clearing his throat a few times, Simon finally said, “I'm in a bit of a fix tonight, Miss. I feel truly bad to turn to you for help, but I didn't know who else to ask.” Joanne remembered that Simon lived on his own in a rented room in a house shared by other students. She was also keenly aware of his financial difficulties, thus she expected him to ask her for some money or a loan. What he asked for brought her nearly to tears. “Miss, do you have some food for me, please? I'm really hungry tonight. The only thing I've had all day was a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea this morning. If you don't have anything, it's fine. I'm very sorry to bother you, Miss.” Unbidden, an image of her stocked fridge and the dinner options she and Nick were deciding on swam into her consciousness. A well of deep shame opened up in the kind woman's heart; her motherly instinct to nurture set her soul ablaze with contrition for having taken for granted that others had three meals a day as she did. “Say no more, Simon. Please, come over right now. I have more than enough food. Have supper with me and my son and I'll pack some leftovers for you to take home as well,” she immediately said. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, making Joanne wonder if Simon had ended the call. “Simon, are you still there?” she asked just as she heard soft sobs coming over the line. Her heart broke anew; she realized that Simon was weeping. “Miss, you have no idea how much this means to me. I can't thank you enough, Mom,” Simon said, not realizing he had referred to Joanne as ‘Mom'. Simon's slip of the tongue stunned Joanne. Heroically, she collected her scattered thoughts, stilling her heaving heart. “I should be the one thanking you, Simon,” she said, her soul drenched in pure gratitude. Image: Marcos Paulo Prado (www.unsplash.com)

Three days. That's all it had taken for my luxury life to come to an abrupt end. That's all it had taken for my parents to break up. For them to become divorced. For them to move into separate houses. For me to never be in the same house as both of them ever again. Three days, seventy-two hours, four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. You would not think so much could happen in such a short amount of time. It all started when I heard the screaming. The shouts that echoed through the narrow hallways of our two story house. The shouting was quiet at first, more like two people trying to talk at once. I thought that my parents must just be having their weekly debate on who was making dinner or who was going to drop me off at practice. They always fought about silly things. I never thought once about their fighting back then. Their constant bickering was just part of our lifestyle. Why should an argument end any different this time? However, this time, the argument was prolonged for much longer than usual. About 10 minutes into the argument, I could begin to make out most of the words from my bedroom doorway. I was slowly trying to inch closer to the stairway without making any noise. I did not want them to know that I was eavesdropping, but I had a feeling they knew that I could hear them. “I had told you! What? Only like, a thousand times by now! I can not pay the taxes if you don't make enough money for me to pay them!” I could hear my mom snapping at my dad. “How am I supposed to make enough money to pay for the taxes and your endless shopping sprees? Don't you know that there are more people than just you in this household?” My dad snapped back. They had been fighting over taxes the whole time. But, once they finished their argument over taxes, even though neither one was happy, they moved on to other topics. Like me. Their house. Their marriage. Who will get the house? Who will make the money? When will the child, me, come to visit? None of the questions made sense to me. Unless, the one thing that I dreaded would happen was finally coming true. Divorce. Finally making it to the top of the stairway without making any noise, I sat down on the top step and thought about what I just found out. I did not even bother listing to the rest of their conversation. The last thing I heard was “I'll call the lawyer tomorrow,” and the sound of my dad slamming the front door. It's been three days since my dad left and within that time, they had gotten divorced and my dad had moved out. I've spent most of the time in my room, eating junk food and watching videos on my tablet. When I was not being lazy and sulking over what had happened, I was contemplating what I would say to my dad when I saw him next. Would I be snotty and tell him that I would never forgive him? Or, should I forgive him and try to keep in touch? I was so busy trying to decide what to say that when the time came for me to see him again on that third afternoon after the divorce, I still did not know what to say. I only knew one thing. He was my father and no matter what happens, he still will be. I should not hold a grudge against him even if it was his fault. I was brought into this world because of him. I still wanted him to be a part of my world, even if we no longer lived under the same roof.

Don't Stop Rock With It!!! Awesome words spoken by the illustrious Uncle Luke. This last year I have been separated from my husband of over 20 years. We gave it a good run, however in the end our selfishness and stubbornness won and the marriage we didn't each put 100% in blew up. It blew up in a cloud of black smoke, that wafted mild violence, tears, hurt, betrayal and just plain old ugliness. Real stinky stuff. I now realize we were always doomed for failure. Why? Because although we had the best intentions and loved and even liked one another. We were mainly just using one another, attempting to achieve having the perfect Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver family facade we grew up watching on television. Our attempts to make our black children not the stereotypes so often associated with black folk and our attempt to be the best black parents ever took presidence over being the best husband and wife ever. Instead of building us. We built models for Boy and Girl Scouts. Instead of saving for our future. We spent money to live in homes outside our means, pay for soccer clubs and golf camps. So that our children would be in a greater position to prosper. Sometimes, mainly when I look at my children or when I look at other seemingly happy families, I miss what we had. What we wanted. What we needed. What we both longed for and went about achieving in all the wrong ways. But for the most part, and I do feel guilty about this. (lol guilty should be my middle name) I feel HAPPY. Guilty-Happy, but happy none-the-less. Guilty-Happy that I am at peace. Guilty-Happy that I love that it's just my 14-year old and I in our little house. Guilty-Happy that I don't have to answer to a man. Guilty-Happy that I can purchase my thrift store finds without getting the stink eye. Guilty-Happy that I got a promotion with a 25% raise. Guilty-Happy that I've met a guy who's my equal. Guilty happy that I am THRIVING AND NOT JUST SURVIVING. Yes, Indypendence!! Don't Stop Get It; Get!! Don't Stop; Rock With It!!

I can't handle it anymore. All the yelling and screaming, it's hurting my ears. I plug my ears and shake my head wildly. I walk down the spiral staircase, trying to figure out what the big stink is all about. There are only a few lights on, and they're yellow-ish and dark. Mommy is crying and Daddy is yelling. “Daddy?” I yell. I try to get his attention, but I don't think he can hear me. “Daddy!” I try again, my voice all big and strong. He turns and looks at me, but just looks away again. He's yelling at Mommy about something that I think is bad. Daddy keeps yelling, and Mommy keeps crying, until I say, “Stop it! Daddy! You're scaring Mommy!” Now I'm crying. I think I'm scared. Mommy is not crying anymore. Instead, she gets up and pokes Daddy in the chest. “You,” she says, “are the reason this family fell apart! You,” she looks at me, then at Daddy again, “are the reason that she is crying.” Mommy starts to backup again, tripping on her feet as she goes. Now she looks scared. "Mommy?" I ask. Before Mommy can regain her balance, Daddy pushes her out the door and locks it. Then, Daddy scoots my sissy and I up the stairs. It looks like sissy is scared, so I reach down and hold her hand. But sissy breaks away and runs down the stairs to unlock the door for Mommy. Mommy's banging on the door right now. Sissy's smart. She's my favorite. 12 years later, I remember that day like it was yesterday. I remember what they have said, I remember what they threw, I remember every little microscopic unimportant detail. I love them both, but I think their personalities were too similar for them to be together.

So here I am, sitting here at 3 AM during exam week, thinking about my life. And it all comes rushing back. Swinging on the monkey bars on hot blistering days alone, to sitting in a corner with my dolls, listening to the most terrifying screaming. Things I have endeavored to ignore and forget because it only brings pain ― an unproductive, useless kind of emotion that I don't believe I need to feel now that it is mostly of the past. But I'll try to remember anyways. Because the insecurity, distrust, and anxiety I now harbour despite having a pretty decent life came from somewhere, and I have a strong suspicion that it isn't solely based on nature (though I admit, there is some family resemblance going on here), but also nurture. My mornings with my parents were quiet at some point in my life, I'm sure. But screaming and shouting had became my alarm clock by the time I was 4 years old. Daily. Loud. And as I grew up, I began to take part in it, for so many reasons that kept on changing as I aged. My mother, goading me to argue on her behalf with my father. My father, telling me how mentally retarded my mother and I are. Me, trying to keep up, favouring one side then favouring the other. Then favouring none. I remember it all becoming too much. When I was 8, I shut myself in my mother's small, dark closet to escape. For one of the first times (and definitely not the last), I wondered why people bothered to live. It's hard for a 8 year old to grasp life and death, so I wouldn't call myself suicidal per se ― more genuine curiosity and slight desperation. Craving for an answer, I asked my parents. Neither answered my question, nor comforted me. My father was outraged. My mother scolded me for even thinking such a thing. Just more incessant, hurtful noise. While watching them, I suddenly realized that I had parents who didn't understand each other, nor did they understand me. Afterwards, I stopped confiding in them. When my younger sister was born, and she joined the familial argument too. At the very least, I can say that she seemed to cope a little better than I did. Whenever it was too much, she'd come to my room, and we'd spend time together ― just the two of us. We'd talk to each other about what we couldn't talk about to our parents. It was healthy. It felt safe. It also felt like the yelling outside of my room would never end, and we accepted that. Looking back, the sound of glass shattering on the cold marble floor was the turning point. Today I'm here. Same, but a little broken inside, just as everyone affected by the toxic relationship is. “You used to smile a lot more, you know?” My mother told me, a few days ago. It wasn't the first time she told me this, and I doubt it will be the last. “You were so happy as a child. You laughed all the time.” I can hear it as clear as day. The silent “What happened?” I find it odd she doesn't know. I could tell her everything I think and feel. But she doesn't deserve it. She tried her best as a parent, and in the end I turned out quite fine. She doesn't need an blame pushed onto her shoulders about a childhood of memories she didn't, and doesn't know how to fix. Nor can she. My father doesn't deserve it either. He has his quirks, sure. But no one can fault him for only wanting the best. And even if I faulted him for expressing his opinions inappropriately, at this point it hardly matters. I've grown up. With his old age, he has gotten softer. There's no point. No point to pointing fingers, or pushing burdens onto others. People don't need to know, because I don't want to change the way they see me. This pain is something I'll carry myself. But this pain didn't have to exist. I'm writing this for my younger sister, who went through most of what I went through as I stood by helplessly. I'm writing this for anyone who's having familial troubles, which includes most of my friends and classmates. I'm writing this for any of you who can't really empathize what I'm talking about. In order for a relationship to work, there has to be communication and tolerance. I wholeheartedly believe this. Don't choose a partner for their looks, their money, or their smarts. Get to know them. Live with them for a while. Meet their family, their friends, discover their interests and preferences. Analyze the things that you two argue or agree about. If you don't see communication and tolerance happening, then I highly suggest you reconsider where your relationship is at before you take the next step ― whether that be marriage, or a child. Because it is a lot easier to start something, than to take it back it afterwards. So there's some food for the thought on who you choose as a partner, and how you might want to parent if the time ever comes.