The Yellow Umbrella

Chapter Six: Change

The next morning, my parents broke the news.

Well, they didn't tell me, my dad did. My mom was out cold from a night of crying and a bottle of whiskey. Rushing through homework that was due days ago, my cereal was getting soggier by the minute. My dad walked into the kitchen, a mug of coffee steaming in his hand.

"Son," His stern voice sighed, "We need to talk."

I rolled my eyes and didn't look up from my homework, "About?"

There were so many things I could've tacked on. About the fact that you've had no interest in talking to me since middle school? About the fact that you only talked about my achievements not because you were proud, but because you wanted to use me as a trophy?

"Your mother and I," My dad sighed, "Are getting divorced."

I dropped my pencil and stared blankly at my homework. The pencil rolled off the table, clattering as it hit the floor.

"It's not that we don't love each other anymore." He continued, setting his mug on the counter, "Forget whatever that ridiculous psychic said... We just grew apart from each other, we're different people now."

Somewhere, somehow, I had to get out of the kitchen. I couldn't hear more.

Walking to the sink, I watched my cereal and milk escape down the garbage disposal. One cornflake didn't make it and clung to the bottom of sink, utterly alone.

"I'm not surprised," I said aloud, though I doubted he was listening, "Us Morrows, we're quitters."

I looked up to see my dad taking my seat and opening the newspaper.

Typical.

I stormed back to my room and slammed the door, hot tears threatening brimming my eyes. I tried punching something, forgetting I was a weak teenage boy who spent his free time writing and playing video games.

Word of advice, don't punch walls. It just leaves your fist throbbing and red.

I knew it was coming, I knew I knew I knew. It shouldn't have mattered. But it did, because as much as I hated my dad, I saw myself in him. His anger, his wish for the perfect television family, with the quirky mom that cooked and the dad that always supported his perfect son. I used to waste every birthday candle, every shooting star, every coin in a fountain, that we'd be that family.

It felt like my dad was throwing away a winning lottery ticket by leaving my mom. Winning the lottery was like a 1 in 175 million chance. Sure she had her flaws, but he shouldn't have left her, given up. 

Yet it seemed like all he wanted to do was set the lottery ticket on fire and settle for a two dollar scratch off.

My face felt hot, my knuckles were throbbing, but I remained still. Sometimes it felt like my life was like a bottle of oil and water. Something or someone would shake it like a madman and it would suddenly be all over the place, scattered and messy. But eventually, like oil and water, it eventually separates and everything goes back to normal. Except, I couldn't just let it fall into place with time, I had to do it myself. I finally saw what I had to do.

I would not be like my dad.

Grabbing my bag and jacket, I nearly tumbled down the stairs and out the door. Turning the knob, I ran back to the kitchen and rinsed the last cornflake down the sink.

"What are you doing?" My dad asked, still reading the paper.

I refused to look at him, "Nothing deserves to be alone."