“It was the first time I’d been excited to tell my parents anything about my day during dinner in years, and as I inhaled to begin my story, my mother exhaled a gasp flooded with tears and interjected my theme of womanhood, ‘Your father and I are getting a divorce!’”
“My father slammed his silverware down and stormed heavy-footedly to the living room where he began touching his forehead and slanderously making comments about my mother’s childish attitude in correlation to her sizable ass. This instigated her competitively louder silverware slam and departure from the kitchen table to their once amorously ripe bedroom, followed by my older brother’s testimony that there was no way in hell he was going to live with our mother and her high-pitched bitching.”
“And thus, my life from a broken home commenced.”
“I think I was upset at my parents more for interrupting my story than I was about their divorce, and I was also angry with my brother for making such a bold statement towards our mother. She told him that morning he was not allowed to go to the Rolling Stones concert the next night because of his grades, but I guess he’d already purchased a ticket. Needless to say, he was simply lashing out.”
“And what about you,” she asked me with her glasses perched up on her nose, writing a canon of notes in her leather notebook with her head cocked to the right, comfortably waiting for my answer while sitting in her fancy leather chair.
“What about me?” I asked, sitting up from the couch.
“What were you going to say to your family that night?”