My parents divorced when I was only 18 months old.
It got to the point where my father kissed liquor bottles more than his own wife and his apologies turned into broken records.
It took sixteen years for my mother to decide it's strange for a man to blacken eyes more often than he sees his own children.
It's taken 15 years of my mother apologizing for me to realize that maybe she isn't apologizing for what should've been, but what shouldn't have needed to happen.
It's taken 20 years for my father to say sorry and mean it.
It's taken losing both his wives, his children, his mother, his father; everyone that ever loved him, for him to think, "maybe I'm the problem."
It's taken life threatening diseases, surgeries, hospital beds and no phone calls for him to wonder what'll happen if he doesn't make it.
It's taken lie after lie, his mother lying in a casket, me asking what we ever did to deserve this, what good could ever come of this, for him to ask, "what if we can't get past this?"
