Bread and Butter

He briefly considers putting a hand on my back, but decides instead to rest against the table. "Now don't worry," he says, his voice calming, and I suppose it should be, as his job is to master the skill of taking rebellious kids and furious parents down a notch, "Take all the time you want. No matter what, your mom and dad will understand, and still love you just as much as they do now." He pushes the blue pen to my fingers. "But we do need you to write down the name, whichever one you want, of the person you want to live with."

Then he pats my back, whispers that yes, they are in the room, but they are not looking, and they are not judging, and it's okay. He steps away, and I sit at the table, alone.

I have a memory, fading and distant, but very much alive. I am seven years old, strolling down the street, in new size three sneakers. They light up when I put my foot down and make a silly sound when it comes up. My father walks on my left, my mother on my right. I trip. They catch me, simultaneously. I am overwhelmed with the time, the attention, the care that they lather on me. I decide right then and there that no shoes of any sort with give me the support I have from them.

Someone coughs behind me.
Nervous shifting.
The memory disappears entirely.

It is as unrealistic as my belief in family values. It belongs to a talented screenwriter who wrote it for the film I saw last Thursday. I have no cherished memories, have hidden away little or no memories at all, in fact. I was alone. And I am alone. Alone. Three other people in the room, two of which raised me, and I still feel alone. And I like it. And I wish I was two years older, wish it was legal to be alone. Wish this day was over, wish this feeling of alone could go on forever. I wish this dotted line could remain untainted, this cap on the blue pen immovable. I stare at the line, the parentheses underneath it (name of chosen guardian)

More nervous movement.

Each moment I spend staring is a moment more painful for them. Good, I decide. Decide this is payback for all less-than-friendly atmospheres I’ve been subjected to these past five years. Let them wait. I grip the pen harder, imagine it bursting and witnessing the ink form its own letters and name, leaving me innocent in this choice. Choice. I wonder how much of this choice is mine, wonder what other thoughts have managed to snake into my mind, what other materialistic goods or whispered lies have poisoned my judgement. Somewhere in the back of my mind I see my future, foggy but transparent: It is full of hardships and broken promises. More broken promises, and I cringe at the mere thought of more betrayal. Can't handle more of this pain, and can only blame myself for making this particular moment excruciatingly long. I pause, consider their feelings. For once.

Consider how this feels for them, consider that they, in their own minds, on their own time, are rattling through every mistake, every regret they have made throughout my sixteen years. No matter my decision, they will lose sleep tonight. Both of them.

And the decision is clear.
Clear as day and clear as night.

In this one moment of clarity, the image of a sobbing figure on an otherwise empty king-size bed floats into my mind. I do not understand how I had ever doubted myself. I can hear the sniffles, can hear the pain, can't stand to picture it, know I am, and always will be, willing to throw myself at their side. I cannot write any name other than theirs, I cannot enter adulthood with the other, do not, and certainly will never desire to do so. I scribble the name and it's never looked so foreign and put the pen down and he walks over to me and pats me on my back again. He kneels down, asks me if I'm okay, voice genuine, asks me if I'm sure. I'm sure. "I'm sure." It's time, and was time long ago, to leave this broken family behind and start anew. Because I'm not ready to be completely alone quite yet, nor do I want to be parted. But I am ready for a new beginning, a home life without doubt and regret and betrayal. I am craving new life.

He picks up the paper and I turn my chair around, looking at the two adults, separate, both physically and emotionally. More emotionally apart than I've ever seen them. Through the years they've shared so much, and now, finally, it comes to a crashing, flaming car-wreck of an end. The deed is done, and they will now, from this moment, never share anything ever again.

He reads out the name, and their eyes grow wide. My mother can barely look at me, only opens and closes her mouth, staring at her hands. Stares at them as though they're stained with blood, perhaps stained with the ashes of every last moment between us she let wither away. I have betrayed her, I know, and hope that in time, with time, she will forgive me. Not for my soul or sake, but for hers.

My father now looks older than I've ever seen him. He blinks, as though he's uncertain as to what was just said, stares at the back of the paper, which now has his name scribbled furiously on the other side. He looks at me. His eyes wide at first, then closing slightly, affectionately, as though the stranger by his side had just given birth to me all over again.

He does not cry.

All is well.