The Year We Fell From Space

Mom and Dad sat Jilly and me down when we got home from school on a Friday. It was January cold outside-snow piled up on the edges of the quarter-mile-long lane to our house-and Dad made us hot chocolate when we got inside after our walk from the bus stop. Then, we sat on the red couch. They sat on the green one.
Mom said, “Dad and I are going to separate. He’s going to move out this weekend. I’m sure you’ve noticed things aren’t going well between us. We’re sorry you’ve had to hear us fighting so much. But the main thing for you to know is that you’ll still see both of us and that we both love you very much.”
“You’ll still see me all the time,” Dad said. “I’m going to get some bunk beds so you can stay with me whenever you want.” He didn’t look us in the eyes. He was staring at the carpet, mostly.
“We want you to talk to us about anything that’s on your mind and don’t be afraid of the feelings you have about this because whatever you feel, it’s totally normal,” Mom said.
I wasn’t afraid of the feelings I was having. In order, they were: relief, confusion, and fear. Probably some other ones, too, but those were the big ones. Jilly was pure sadness. Her body shook. I moved closer to her on the couch and put my arm around her.
Dad said, “Look, this is all my fault. I’m so sorry. We’re going to do the best we can to make things right and try to be a family again.”
And that changed everything. For example, my feelings rearranged themselves into: confusion, fear, and more confusion. Jilly shook less and her eyes widened as if she could somehow see our family not breaking apart. But she knew it was. I knew it was. Mom knew it was. Dad seemed to be the only one there who was unaware.
He was just saying stuff to make it seem better and to make Jilly not cry. Welcome to my life.
Example 1: Jilly and me in the back seat every summer while Dad drives us home from day camp. I ask if we can stop for ice cream. Dad says no. I go back to watching the trees pass by as we drive. Jilly starts to cry. She says something like “I really want ice cream!” and Dad stops for ice cream.
Example 2: It’s summer vacation last year and Mom is hiking with her friend Patty. I ask Dad if Jilly and I can stay up late to watch an episode of Star Trek. He says no. I start heading up the stairs to brush my teeth and go to bed. Jilly cranks up the waterworks and says something like “But I really wanted to see it! And it’s summer vacation!” and Dad turns on Star Trek and calls for me to come down.
It was always the same. I tried crying but he’d tell me that “this is just the way things are.” For me. But not for Jilly. Jilly didn’t have a way things are. She just got what she wanted as if her tears and my tears were two different elements.
He’s not a bad dad. He’s just mixed up, is all. When he’s outside, he’s usually fine. When he’s inside, it’s like he can’t think right due to a lack of fresh air or something. It was winter. We were spending a lot of time inside.
Mom said, “Dad’s going to get some help. You know he’s been having some problems. He needs some time to figure things out.”
I noted the somes in her sentences. Some help. Some problems. Some time.
Jilly said, “Figure out if he loves us.”
Dad said, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be back.”
Mom said, “Jack, don’t say that. We talked about this already.”
Dad said, “Sorry. But it’s what I want.” He turned to us and said, “Your mother is making me do this.”
With that, Mom threw her hands into the air and plopped
down on her favorite chair and crossed her arms.