Sep 2014
Three weeks ago, I saw my aunt without a wedding ring and her baby, Abigail, without a clue.
The questions that were fired at my mother after she delivered the news to me formed a ball in my throat the next time my aunt explained why Uncle Charlie wasn't at a family party.
I know my own vision was blurred but I saw every pair of eyes turn towards Abigail.
She was smiling over a bowl of chips.
My aunt hugged me goodbye loosely and although she probably needed me to pull tighter, I couldn't without thinking of his suffocating hugs.
Maybe she would feel the same.
My brain still houses a jumbled combination of every rare word whispered about it.
My stomach contorts as my grandparents fear his presence to pick up his daughter the way I now fear my own family for being so ridiculous.
He isn't dangerous.
He didn't do anything wrong.
They fell out of love (apparently).
Everything takes two.
How can they welcome a person in to the family then reject him without remorse?
My heart is sore every passing day I'm reminded that Abigail is only one years old.
I want to catch her tears when Mommy leaves her for weeks at a time the way her two front teeth catch her tongue when she tries to pronounce my name.
I want to make sure she fully understands what love is before she experiences heartbreak.
I want her first broken heart to happen when she's sixteen and the first people she learned to love to not be the culprits.
I want everyone else to stop denying the fact that she definitely has an idea about what's going on.
When my aunt and uncle told my Grandmother they needed to talk, she clapped and asked for the due date.
I sat in my bed upon finding out with that same shock,
subconsciously numbering each couple of the family in order of most likely to be divorced.
Guess who was in last place.
Their wedding replays in my memory alongside the effortless conversations with my uncle I now long for more than ever.
I worry about him.
I worry about her.
I worry about Abigail. Everyone does.
Because she sings the closing Barney song on repeat for a family who provides forced smiles framed with bitten lips.
Because I don't ever want her to think she should stop singing.
Three weeks ago, I saw my aunt without a wedding ring and her niece with a new fear.
The questions that were fired at my mother after she delivered the news to me formed a ball in my throat the next time my aunt explained why Uncle Charlie wasn't at a family party.
I know my own vision was blurred but I saw every pair of eyes turn towards Abigail.
She was smiling over a bowl of chips.
My aunt hugged me goodbye loosely and although she probably needed me to pull tighter, I couldn't without thinking of his suffocating hugs.
Maybe she would feel the same.
My brain still houses a jumbled combination of every rare word whispered about it.
My stomach contorts as my grandparents fear his presence to pick up his daughter the way I now fear my own family for being so ridiculous.
He isn't dangerous.
He didn't do anything wrong.
They fell out of love (apparently).
Everything takes two.
How can they welcome a person in to the family then reject him without remorse?
My heart is sore every passing day I'm reminded that Abigail is only one years old.
I want to catch her tears when Mommy leaves her for weeks at a time the way her two front teeth catch her tongue when she tries to pronounce my name.
I want to make sure she fully understands what love is before she experiences heartbreak.
I want her first broken heart to happen when she's sixteen and the first people she learned to love to not be the culprits.
I want everyone else to stop denying the fact that she definitely has an idea about what's going on.
When my aunt and uncle told my Grandmother they needed to talk, she clapped and asked for the due date.
I sat in my bed upon finding out with that same shock,
subconsciously numbering each couple of the family in order of most likely to be divorced.
Guess who was in last place.
Their wedding replays in my memory alongside the effortless conversations with my uncle I now long for more than ever.
I worry about him.
I worry about her.
I worry about Abigail. Everyone does.
Because she sings the closing Barney song on repeat for a family who provides forced smiles framed with bitten lips.
Because I don't ever want her to think she should stop singing.
Three weeks ago, I saw my aunt without a wedding ring and her niece with a new fear.
