After seeing the emails she forgot to delete and the wrong birthday card in her jacket pocket, I realized how right he was. It became clear that I had to reexamine some of the philosophies I had always accepted as true, such as Anne Frank’s belief of all people being truly good at heart.
However, when my dad found out, his belief was only reinforced. I remember crawling out of bed, trying my best not to make the hinges squeak, and tiptoeing over to my door so I could make sense of the tangled mess of screams and slaps and flying chairs. They hit the walls harder than the previous times and more glasses shattered, with echoes so piercing I thought my ears would bleed. I remember not being able to understand the snippets of words I drew from the anger, and I remember waking up the next morning beside my door in a pool of saliva and tears.
I’ll never know for sure, but since that was the last time they fought, I’ve always assumed that was the night the divorce was finalized. I no longer eavesdropped on our domestic hell in the same way as before, mostly because our halls were filled with nothing but sullenness and dead air. I’d come down for breakfast in the mornings before school, sometimes to see mom on the couch with the same book she had been reading for the past four months, with blackened toast on the counter and a mumble to not be late. I wasn’t sure where dad was, but I didn’t bother to ask. I’d grab my bag and a muffin and head towards the door, trudging into the biting Boston breeze with her old Burberry scarf wrapped around my neck.
It’s not like we were exceptionally wealthy or anything like that; the scarf was an indulgence that dad had bought for mom years ago when things were different. Those days feel like dreams now, tucked away somewhere in the back of my mind, coated in black and white. He bought the scarf when things were going well for us, and gifted it to her on her birthday. She wore it all the time, to family dinners, movies, the mall, our trip to London, and even the grocery store. She said it made her feel confident; like she could be anyone she wanted to be.
I had always admired that scarf, not only for its price but also for the way it made mom walk with her head held high, and with a little more purpose. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to own this iconic beige strip of cashmere, so when mom gave it to me on a day with no specific occasion and told me to wear it well, I didn’t think twice about how she could possibly give up her favorite item of clothing. I didn’t think twice about why she was leaving for work on Sunday and why dad didn’t care to ask. I didn’t think twice about how their relationship was beginning to crumble.
It surprised me how quickly my room emptied in the process of packing. When I was finished, it seemed smaller somehow. I drove away with mom that afternoon after saying goodbye to dad, in a car packed with necessities that felt hollow and a cold silence that no one bothered to fill. When we reached grandpa’s house, he showed me my new room and told me to make myself comfortable, and I said thank you because there was nothing else to say. There is still a certain quietness to this house, one much more comfortable than home, but I still sneak out of bed on some nights. I occasionally tell myself it’s force of habit, but every so often I’ll look for the scarf and tuck it under my pillow before going back to sleep. However last night, I awoke to the dull screech of the front door and the clicks of mom’s heels as she stepped out into the night. I raised my window blinds and watched her disappear into the fog, the beige strip of cashmere blowing in the curling wind.
!-- Start Alexa Certify Javascript -->
Aaroshi Sahgal is a senior at Mission San Jose High School and lives in Fremont, Calif. She loves writing, fine arts and Indian classical dance.
