The International Writers Magazine:A Child's perspective of Divorce

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When Families Divide • Keren Arnold This is what I remember. I was in the study, which wasn’t really a study, just a spare room full of all the junk that never seems to fit anywhere else, the computer, which seemed more obsolete with each passing day, and a sofa bed, for when guests stayed, normally after parties. Not that there had been many of those lately.

I was playing on the ancient computer, one of those old Atari games which always conjure up a happy sense of nostalgia, even now. My father came into the room, and tentatively sat down on the sofa-bed. I didn’t turn round. I’d like to think that I knew what was coming.

I was eleven years old, and felt I understood what was going on. I didn’t know the half of it. I had only a few memories of my parents being happy together, and none of them were recent. My dad had a new job in London, coming home at week-ends, and his bed had been the sofa in the lounge. No one had made an issue of this, and I wasn’t about to. As a child I craved normality like my peers craved sweets and toys. I’d listen to my friends talk about where they’d gone at the weekend with their parents, or an amusing anecdote from the dinner table. My parents had long since stopped going anywhere together, even for my sake, and the dinner table was a minefield, to be negotiated with extreme caution. One wrong step and chaos would ensue.
Strangely enough, I always felt most at ease once it happened, somehow the silences and snide niceties were the things that became most unbearable.

"Alright Lu?" My Father asked, bringing the computer screen back into focus. I nodded slowly, without taking my eyes off the screen. He cleared his throat. "Um, you know Lu, how me and your mum don’t really get on anymore don’t you?" I had noticed. The screaming fights, the tense, false pleasantries in public, the vicious whispers when I was around, normally with my head in a book on the sofa. They’d silently follow each other out, and shut the kitchen door, as the words on my page blurred together. "Um….suppose." I replied, still concentrating on the game. I wasn’t about to make this easier for him. I didn’t see why I should.
"Well, how would you feel about us getting a divorce?" The vocalisation of the word struck me hard, I swallowed and the tapping stopped momentarily, but after a pause, I resumed.
"Fine." I said, calmly.
"I’ve found a house…in London," he continued.
"Oh. Cool."
"Are you sure that you’re alright with this Lu?"
"Yep." I replied. "Fine."
He stood up, clearly relieved, and smiling he ruffled my hair, and left the room as quickly as possible.

When my mother came into my room that night to say goodnight she asked if I had spoken to Dad. I nodded and smiled. When she hugged me she held me for longer than usual. I resented her at that moment. I resented her pity, and I resented the fact that she clung to me like a child, lost and alone. She was supposed to take care of me. Now she looked as if she was the one who needed help.
© Keren Arnold December 2004

Keren is a Creative Writing student at Portsmouth University

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