On the ride home, he constantly tried to talk to me and explain, but I put on my headphones. I couldn’t take this. When we arrived home, I ran to my room. I knew what was about to happen and I did not want to be there to see it. I sat, waiting for that one sound that would tell me it had been done.

“Just get out. Out, out, out!” There it was. I ran out to see my mom yelling at my dad. She looked surprised at the news, but more angry than anything. He was trying not to look at me or my mom as he began to pack up his things in a suitcase I never knew he had. My mom, furious and hurt, left for the kitchen.

When my dad started to walk out to his car, I followed him. He saw me staring and asked, “Would you like to come?” I looked at him. He looked sincere, but I couldn’t take him seriously.
“No, never,” I replied, a note of finality in my voice. He nodded as he got into his car. If I had hurt him, I didn’t care.

I watched as he backed his car up, holding back the tears that would soon come. After a couple of minutes, I jerked myself out of my daze, and joined my mom inside.