It was a winter night in December, and my brothers and I were upstairs in our rooms. We lived at the top of a big hill: 3507 Vintage Trail in a neighborhood called The Fairways. This was a three-story house, including the basement, in suburban Atlanta, Georgia. I had lived my entire life in that house and, in my fifth grade mind, I had no plans on leaving. That was until my parents hollered for us to meet them downstairs. My brothers and I were just little kids anxiously waiting for Christmas to come, and hoping school would never start again. Once we heard the yelling of our parents, my twin brother, Nick, younger brother, Alex, and I took off running. Everything was a race between us, whether it was finishing dinner, doing our homework, or just sprinting down the staircase; we were always competing. I went down the first five carpet steps, took a hard right turn, down the next twenty or so, took the last right turn, and leaped for the ground, skipping the last few steps. I had won the race, like normal, and turned to point and laugh at my brothers still flying down the stairs. But when I turned around and saw my mom and dad at opposite ends of the fireplace telling us to sit between them, I knew something was wrong. My mom looked sad, and my dad, in his Christmas-like red button down long-sleeved shirt, hugged Alex. The fire burned behind our backs, and I was nervous and scared to find out what was going on. My mom then turned to us and told us that she was going to divorce my father. When I heard those words, I could not look up any longer. I fixed my eyes on my chocolate lab, Coco, and realized what just happened. My mom went on to tell us that she was going to take me and my brothers with her to live in her hometown of Tampa, Florida, but assured us “everything was going to be alright.” My life just took a dive, and I knew everything was not going to be alright; I was leaving my dad, friends, house, and everything else. Moving to Florida was going to be emotional and stressful but, in the end, a learning experience.
Moments after my mom spilled the terrible news, my brothers and I were excused from the “family meeting” and we went back upstairs. This time, however, there was no racing. Once upstairs, Alex and I met Nick in his room because it was in the middle. We all gathered on Nick’s big green bed and cried together. “I can’t believe what just happened,” Nick said, “What are we going to do Chris?” “I don’t know,” I replied. Nick, still with tears in his large brown eyes, went on to say, “What if I do not want to leave dad, or at least Georgia? I want to stay here with all of my friends.” “Me too Nick, I would love to stay here, but we can’t because mom and dad don’t love one another anymore,” I said. Nick angrily replied, “But mom never told us why she decided to divorce dad and she never said she did not love him!” “Nick,” I said, “I know this is extremely hard on us, but there is nothing we can do. We are moving to Florida whether we like it or not.”
The summer before sixth grade was when my family —without my father— moved to Florida. It was a couple weeks before middle school started and I was in a foreign place; I knew my two little brothers and that was it. School came sooner than I expected, or wanted, I cannot remember. Days went by but things were not going well. It was painful seeing other kids with their longtime friends always laughing in the hallway, eating together at lunch, and chatting at their desks before class started. Talking to my dad over the phone each day was painful because I just wanted to be there with him. I remember one of the hardest things was not having my dad hug me and wish me goodnight. Some people may think that such an act is small, but it was my bedtime ritual and suddenly it was gone. Sometimes I cried simply because I missed my old life, but I made sure nobody found out. I did not want anyone, especially my mom, to know the difficulty I had in making the transition to Florida and a new life.
Living in Florida was hard enough, but I was faced with a bigger challenge: being the man of the house. Since I was the oldest sibling, I considered it my duty to help around the house — cleaning, vacuuming, washing dishes, folding laundry, anything that I could possibly do to help my mother. While my brothers played video games, watched television, and went outside, I was doing chores. Don’t get me wrong, I made time to do the fun things like watch television and play games, but I was not able enjoy myself as much as Nick and Alex.
Baseball season started a few weeks into the school year and there was nothing that was going to deter me from playing. Baseball had always been a key part of my life. I had played every year since I was three years old, and I refused to let that change just because I moved to Florida. Tryouts were finally here; I stepped up to the white plate, dug my feet into the hard, brown dirt, and swung away. The batter’s box was my comfort zone. All of my struggles and worries about living in Florida seemed to vanish while on the field. I performed my best and it paid off. Suddenly other kids started to talk to me and it made me feel as if I was not invisible after all. The next day in science class I saw one of the kids that was at tryouts with me. He was a huge kid who hit many home runs the day before. His name was Stephen, and I decided to man up and go sit next to him. We talked about tryouts and got to know each other. The next day Stephen asked me to sit next to him and from that point on we were best friends.
Today I spend most of my time sandwiched between two bare Lake Claire dorm walls. I look around and see my Dell computer, a wooden desk, a Sony television, and the ever comfortable twin extra long bed. My shirts are wrinkled, my room is dirty, my face is scruffy. I am free. I am free to live my own life, but the divorce still has its effects me. Both my mom and dad are still single, and they have been apart coming up on seven years. I still wonder, “Why did they divorce to begin with? Maybe they still love one another, and that is why neither has found another wife or husband.” These thoughts are always in the back of my mind, but I have learned to ignore them. Instead, I have moved on, thinking of the whole experience as something positive. Having heard the expression “Everything happens for a reason” countless times in my life, I have finally applied it. If it weren’t for the divorce and move to Florida I would not have challenged myself. I had to grow up, make new friends, and learn to deal with difficult situations. I have become a better man. I am now an independent, smart, and responsible young adult because I was “the man of the house” after the divorce. I believe the divorce experience is helping me in college — I have already gone through meeting new people and caring for myself, so the transition is not alien to me. I have been away from my dad for some time, so I know how to cope with missing and being away from my mom. My parents’ divorce has shown me how I want to live my life when I become a parent. I want to be there for my children; I do not want them to endure what I had to endure — to experience the heartache of being separated from a parent. Above all, the divorce has shown me that when one is faced with a life-altering experience he can either choose to grudgingly accept it, or take it as a challenge and rise above it.
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