We Are Infinite

t e n

k a d e  /  t e n

When I push open the door to the entrance of my house, I step in and immediately feel on edge. The prickly feeling doesn't leave me until I follow my senses into the hallway that leads to my parents bedroom, where the door is slightly ajar.

I hesitate, wondering if it would be overstepping boundaries if I peeked through the slat into the bedroom. I hear the sound of quiet sniffling, and my fist tightens as I recognize it as Mom. I can't take it anymore, and I silence the voice in my head that tells me not to look into the room.

I look, and my anger turns into emptiness as the scene unfolds in front of me. Mom sits on the edge of the queen-sized bed, a book in front of her. I recognize the book as a photo album, one that contained all the family pictures dating back to my parents' wedding, my baby pictures, and later ones where I'm in front of Mom and Dad, their arms wrapped around each other, a young couple happy and in love.

There's tears on Mom's face, now, and it makes me both sad and furious.

My anger doesn't let me walk away, let Mom wallow in her self-pity, doesn't let me forget I just saw what I saw. Instead, I push open the bedroom door, and Mom's head snaps up, her eyes wide with panic. She drops the picture she was gazing at, wipes her fingers under her eyes, but her eyelashes are wet with tears and I know Mom was crying.

She tries to cover it up, saying she was just sorting out the album, just looking through the pictures, just searching for a specific picture. A hundred excuses fall from her lips and a part of me wants to yell out, tell her that I can see right through her. I want to tell her that it's obvious that she's hurting, and that I can't see her this way.

Instead I just let out a deep breath, feeling myself distance. Whatever may be happening between her and Dad is not my business, but I've begun to feel like I'm part of the reason they're themselves distancing.

Mom has always been there for me. She'd always encouraged me to follow my dreams, to be myself, to have courage. She'd also only done this, been supportive openly, when we were alone. When we were away from the harsh glare of Dad.

I turn on my heel and leave the room, Mom asking me to come back, to wait, to hear her out. I don't. I walk into my room and slam the door behind me, a million thoughts in my mind and all of them with a tinge of anger. Fury, coursing through my veins. At Mom, for not being able to speak up in Dad's presence. As if she's scared of what he might say. At Dad, for making Mom feel this way. For making me follow a dream that's only his, one that I'd given up a long time ago. Both of them, for not seeing that their behavior could affect Finn. I swear to God, the little guy knows how to be strong, though . . . guess he gets that from his elder brother.

I'm angry at the world, and anger always turns to being cold. I don't hesitate to tear my anger into Mia Lynch, either, but I regret it as soon as the messages are sent.

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