I remember the moment she was done.
I was sitting in the middle seat of the truck, how appropriate.
It was the most excruciating silent car ride of my life.
The kind of silent that shouts volumes.
There was no hesitation when we reached the destination.
She leaped out of the car, with her bag, with all her things, with all her belongings
And proceeded to slam the door in our faces
Even though he said her name
He called her name
He shouted her name.
She closed the door forever on what could have been.
Sometimes I wonder what it would've been like had she stayed inside the car with me.
But she didn't. She left.
And even though eventually she came back, she never really came back.

I remember the moment she was done.
But mostly, I remember sitting right next to my father in the car,
As his foot plunged on the pedal
As his tears began falling
As his mutterings increased
As his face crumbled into grief
As I felt mine do the same.