Tastes Like Winter Read Online Free

did not
seek out my opinion on the topic.
    “It’s not negatively affecting me. Please, relax….” I began.
    “If you weren’t always at work, we could have more family dinners,
which is an important part of a child’s development,” my mother continued, as
if I hadn’t spoken.
    “Always throwing stones, aren’t you? While you sit here, yelling in
front of our daughter. How is that for her development?”
    “Stop! Stop fighting about me. It’s fine. We’re all going to be fine!”
I yelled.
    “See! Now you’ve upset her!” Mom shouted, waving an arm in my
direction.
    My voice grew small. “We are going to be fine, aren’t we?” I asked, my
gaze sliding from one to the other, but I went ignored.
    Suddenly, I didn’t know.
    I don’t know anything anymore. All I know is that my home doesn’t feel
warm and cozy and like it’s mine anymore.
    Everyone always says that divorce isn’t the kid’s fault. But if it’s
not my fault, then why do they keep arguing about me? It’s like the only way Mom
can continue to justify her anger at Dad for cheating is to drag me into the
mix.
    “You’re a bad role model for Emma. You’re never around to spend time
with Emma. Your behavior has let Emma down. Emma misses you.”
    It’s bullshit.
    Am I pissed off that he slept with another woman? Of course. Cheating
is a dick move, no matter who does it. But am I surprised to hear it? Not
particularly. I know I’m young, but I’m not an idiot. I watch plenty of TV and read
plenty of books. I know how these things work.
    Maybe it’s unfair for me to take my anger out on Mom. After all, Dad
is the one who had the affair, and there is no excuse for that. But my father
has never been my hero, and his behavior isn’t a great disappointment for me.
    The disappointment I feel is seeing my mother, the person I looked up
to, spiraling downward in front of my eyes. Mom changed. She molded herself
into what she thought was the figure of the perfect wife; and, instead of being
appreciative, Dad went looking for someone else. I know she had good
intentions, but it’s the path she chose to live.
    I feel terrible distancing myself from Mom as much as I have these
past few months, but I don’t know what else to do. I guess I’m hoping, in the
end, it will be good for her and she will rise like a phoenix from the ashes
and become the strong, steady mother—woman—I know she can be. The
woman she once was before she lost herself in love.
    They continued yelling, and unable to take it anymore, I leapt to my
feet. “Stop! Just stop it, already! Stop bringing me into your arguments. Mom,
choose to forgive Dad or not. Dad….” My voice breaks. “After all Mom has done
for us? Really?” I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “But the both of you,
enough already!” And I stormed upstairs to my room.
    A few minutes later, I heard a knock at the door.
    “Please leave me alone,” I said, my pillow muffling the sound,
“please.”
    I was surprised when whoever was knocking, probably my mother, obeyed
and walked away.
    I’m grateful to be alone, especially now when their fights, their
hurt, drains me, suffocates me. All of Mom’s attention—even that hurts. I
don’t want them to seek me out so they can have an ally on their side. I want
things to be like they were.
    But they can’t be.
    At least the lasagna we had for dinner was good. Mom cooks when she is
stressed, and if nothing else, my taste buds appreciate it.
    My attention drifts back to the Discovery channel. I’m still hungry,
even after the cereal I ate. I should have stolen another piece of garlic bread
before making my exit last night. It was buttery and delicious, and even the
arguing couldn’t spoil that.
    That reminds me. I believe I saw Mom making a pie yesterday evening. Mom
is the pie expert, and we never made it to dessert. I peer down at the
remaining bland little Os swimming around in my milk.
Pie sounds a heck of a lot better than cereal. I go