You never wake up with an inkling that that day could possibly change your life. These kinds of things don’t cross one’s mind regularly. In fact, that was the last thing I thought of after two major family tragedies. I certainly didn’t think yet another storm would strike again, not for at least a few more years. But on this particular Friday night, exactly that happened.

Half of me saw it coming, half of me felt like I had been struck by a truck going ninety miles per hour. Everything stopped. Everything except my mind. Life froze but my thoughts continued to race. A casual night full of pizza and video games suddenly turned into nothing but tears and confusion. This was the final straw; this was the last thing I could handle as a preteen. As I struggled to love myself, my parents decided they no longer loved each other. Just like that a sixteen yearlong marriage ended. After everything they simply just couldn’t, and didn’t, love anymore.

The words formed into one and destroyed me. My brown dog sat on the ground watching this horror show unravel. I clung onto my small, blonde nine-year-old brother as hot, bitter tears rushed down our faces. For some reason I tend to look to him for protection. My blue-eyed mother scanned every part of her tired brain for something her three young children would comprehend. My father’s eyes lost their usual sparkle of happiness. The only expression his face housed was complete misery, guilt, and sadness. I could tell they didn’t want to hurt us. However, like a photo, my heart was slowly and carefully torn right down the center as I realized that everything had solely changed right before I could register it at all.

There wasn’t much to be spoken about this soon. Only cries and worried looks were exchanged before I had to somehow gather myself and my chaotic emotions. Stepping out into the crisp February night, I could finally feel something other than utter heartbreak. My father took my little brothers and I to look at a possible apartment for us.

Stumbling up the stairs of the second floor apartment stung like a fresh wasp bite. I felt it in every small bone my twelve-year-old body contained. It all happened too quickly. The news had only been swallowed an hour ago and there I stood, staring at my exhausted, raw reflection in a vacant bathroom. I forced myself to try to get used to the idea of just the four of us. I tried hard to wrap my head around this new lifestyle I had been handed.

As the days went by, the grief and pain subsided, but not completely. I found myself mourning the loss of my parent’s marriage for years. Over and over I vowed that I would never do this, the epitome of family destruction, to my children in the future. I learned from my parents at a very young and vulnerable age that yes, love died. However also I learned that my family still functioned as a family despite the hardships my parents presented us with.