On a beautiful, mid-August Sunday evening, my two sisters and I are covered in shopping bags and Auntie Annie's pretzel crumbs. Nearly about to burst from being so full, I put on “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction.
Cautiously, my mom turns down the music in the middle of my older sister, Lily, screaming, “Baby, you light up my world like nobody else.”
However, instead of my mom smiling because her children are finally getting along, her expression seemed more serious.
“Your dad and I are getting a divorce.”
Those are words that no 10-year-old ever wants to hear. In this moment, it felt like I was trapped behind glass. My life was over.
Over the next six months, my sibling and I had to adjust to our “new” life. Life with divorced parents looked similar to having recurring sleepovers with your best friend. I would fill my pink Shopkins drawstring bag with an unnecessary amount of clothes, my white stuffed rabbit, and a photograph of my family at Little Rock Lake, the only reminder of what my life used to look like. At my mom's house, the days consisted of an abundant amount of laughter and going on different adventures, while at my dad's, weekends were filled with Penn State football and playing catch.
However, my biggest adjustment didn’t come from two houses or a Shopkins bag. It came from the sympathy of others.
At first, I hated telling people that my parents were divorced. Embarrassment would flood me whenever friends would say, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” or “Am I taking you to your mom's or dad's house?” Their pity made me feel different, like my family was broken in a way that no one else could understand.
But over time, I realized that having divorced parents didn’t mean I was less loved or less fortunate than other kids. It simply meant my love came from two different households.
At my eighth-grade basketball night, I looked into the stands while being recognized and saw both of my parents smiling proudly at me. It didn’t matter if they were sitting on opposite sides of the gym: In that moment, something changed the way I viewed my family. I didn’t need one home to feel whole, because all the love and support I needed was right in front of me the entire time.
Divorce hadn’t taken love away; it had simply placed it in two different places.
Now, older and wiser, I am grateful for my parents. They have taught me that even in difficult times, love is still there. They have shown me that just because you are different, it doesn’t mean you are less. Now, when people express their sorrows for me, I laugh and ask why? Because after all, I believe in two homes.
