I walked down the hallway to my room.  As I passed the bathroom, I saw my mother press her wedding ring into my father’s hand.

“I can’t take anymore,” she said.  “I’ve had enough.”

He laughed at her and tried to give it back.  I continued to the sanctuary of my bedroom and closed myself inside.  It had seemed like they were getting along.  Summers were always an easy time.  I worried that the fighting would start again.

I awoke early the next morning to a dark, silent house.  When I reached my hand into the bathroom to turn on the light, I ran up against something that should not have been there and withdrew in surprise.

Wearing a pink bathrobe cinched tightly at the waist, my mother emerged with a scowl on her face.  She accused me of punching her in the stomach.

“You’re crazy!” I cried out indignantly.

She repeated the accusation and pushed past me.

“I didn’t even know you were in there,” I responded defensively.

But she had already slammed the door of her bedroom, leaving me to stand alone muttering to myself.  I couldn’t wait to get out of the house.  I hastily ate a bowl of cereal and got dressed without watching any TV.  A weight lifted from my shoulders the moment I stepped outside.

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