something must also be wrong with you. Trust me, I know.”
So we didn’t talk about it. Not at home, not with friends. It was almost like there was no Uncle David. Until now.
Now he felt larger than life, and I could tell from their argument that he was the reason we didn’t have our own house;
he was the reason we didn’t have nice cars or fancy things.
He was the reason there always seemed to be a cloud of weariness hanging over my parents.
Why did I have to bring up the yard in the first place? I’d never seen my parents fight like this. Ever.
I wanted to grab them and say, Stop it! Stop it! You love each other! You do!
But I just sat there with tears streaming down my face.
My mother stopped suddenly and whispered, “We should not be doing this in front of her!”
“I’m sorry, Julianna,” my dad said, then reached over and held my forearm.
“Don’t cry. None of this is your fault. We’ll work it out, I promise we will.”
My mother tried to laugh through her tears, saying, “We always have, and we always will.”
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