Four words can change everything.
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Unless you’re my mother, screaming, “I want a divorce” to my father for the millionth time.
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The echoes of her cries can be heard from my favorite spot behind the large oak tree in our expansive backyard. The soft, damp soil is pressing into the knees of my overpriced, torn, faded jeans. Absentmindedly, I half twist my body to face the tree and push my finger under a piece of loosening bark. The sharp edges dig under my nail as I lift it free from its home. The deep, earthy scent fills my nostrils, warming the places in my soul wishing I were far from the mingling shouts and bellows of my fighting parents. 
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Four words can change everything. Unless you’re my mother. 
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My finger is laced with shredded bark while I beg for it to ground me to this place. I close my eyes, feeling my connection to the earth. The peace it brings. As I do every time, I close my eyes and imagine myself somewhere far from here. For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of escaping my small town in Connecticut and making it to New York City. While the city isn’t far from my home, it’s always been the one place I’ve felt is within reach. A place I’ve always known that, if my lavish upbringing as the only daughter of Michael and Florence Keeler was suddenly ripped out of my hands, was still possible. If I didn’t have a penny to my name and couldn’t afford to go to my dream school, I could still make it in New York City and build a place for myself—one surrounded by flowers and plants and earth.  
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So, for the past several years, I’ve convinced myself that even in a jungle of concrete and metal, I can bring nature to its gray expanse. Senior year is the only thing left standing between my dreams and me.
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I’m imagining the dozens of arrangements I’ll create in my future flower shop, when my eyes snap open, immediately darting to the sound of the enormous, glass, French door sliding open. My mother’s shoulders rack with sobs as she darts down the stone patio and into the backyard. She runs, her long legs stretching with every step. Her long, brown hair whips behind her, and her bare feet meet the damp grass with fevered measure. She’s wearing a long, flowing skirt and a silk blouse—a staple for her everyday look. Tears streak down the front of the blouse, staining the shiny, pale blue material.
My mother is beautiful. She always has been.
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To the entire world, she’s poised and perfect, but behind closed doors, or even in our backyard, she’s anything but. 
With a broken heart, she eventually slows, collapsing once she’s made it fifty feet away from the house. She falls to her knees and covers her face with her hands, muffling her cries.
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I stay where I am, tucking myself farther behind the safety of my favorite tree, even though I peeled a piece of its bark. I cling to that piece, hoping it can feel how much I appreciate it in this moment. Every time I hear the first words of my parents arguing, I sneak out to the backyard, using this tree as a shield from my reality until the coast is clear. Within those minutes or hours of they’re fighting, I simply don’t exist. A fact I’ve grown to appreciate.
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The sky is blanketed in heavy, gray clouds, not quite yet giving way to more rain. My skin prickles with a chill as the late summer breeze blows in the air. I grip onto the bark and peek around the trunk, watching my mother, who is hunching over. Her perfectly long, manicured nails dig into the dirt as she screams and cries, not caring if our neighbors on the other side of our wrought iron fence can hear her. 
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A knot builds in my chest, and a magnetic force tugs at my heart. Instinct pulls at me to crawl out from behind the tree and go to her. In another life, I could wrap my arms around her and tell her it will all be okay, but after years of the same old argument and problems between her and my father, I don’t. I stay in the safety of where I am and watch in silence, as usual.
My mother’s long, dark hair curtains her face, shielding her from me, but I can still make out how wide her mouth opens with another sob. 
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After a few seconds of crying, she keeps her head low as her breathing evens out. Once she’s calmed down enough, she finally lifts her head and looks up at the sky, gasping for air. She inhales, counting to ten with every breath she takes, then looks down at her hands. Holding them in front of her, she stares at her dirt-covered skin. With shaking fingers and a trembling chin, she slips her four-carat diamond engagement ring off her fourth finger, and she gently drops and traps it in her palm. Silently, and with more calm measure, she uses her free hand to dig a hole into the soft ground. Satisfied with its depth, she sets her ring in the hole and slowly sweeps the dirt back over it. 
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I’m watching my mother stare at the mound of dirt she’s used to bury her wedding ring when I spot a familiar bit of black from the corner of my eye. Air sucks deep in my lungs when I snap my head toward the front of the yard. 
I rest my face against the jagged bark and watch as the boy I’ve come to know over the past few months makes his way down the street.
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This is my favorite part of my day. 
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He’s walking slowly, his worn-down boots scraping against the asphalt. His faded black shirt hangs loose around his torso, and his jeans have far too many holes to be considered fashionable. It’s the same outfit I’ve seen him wear every single day, and each time I see him wander down our street, it’s as though he doesn’t stick out like a bright, neon flashing light, screaming he doesn’t belong here. I know he doesn’t belong here, but my heart races every time at the sight of him. Like my favorite tree, he’s my escape from the ugliness that hides inside the four walls of my parents’ idyllic mansion. Even if his presence lasts only a matter of minutes. He’s still a glimmer of light in my dark world.
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Thunder rolls in the distance, and my fingers claw into the bark a little deeper, anticipating the boy’s next move. We’ve never spoken to one another. I don’t know what his voice sounds like. I don’t think he even knows I exist.
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The boy stops in the middle of the street and, sticking with his usual routine, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small, spiral notebook and pen. He slowly spins in a circle until he stops and faces the neighbor’s house next to ours. Although his hood is up covering the top of his head, his gorgeous face is still visible, but covered in shadows. I study him as if I’m trying to ingrain him into my memory. The sharp plane of his nose to the shape of his bottom lip to the smooth curves of his jaw. He looks the same age as me. I don’t know a single thing about him. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never seen him before. Not even at school.
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Biting on my bottom lip, I watch him as he studies the neighbor’s house before looking down and scribbling across the furled pages of his worn notebook. 
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When he’s done, he looks up to study the house again, but stops when he catches me staring at him. His eyes dart in my direction, finding mine. Heat immediately consumes my cheeks, and I slink back, tucking in to myself with embarrassment. 
He’s never noticed me before. He’s never once looked at me. I feel the heat of his stare from this distance, and although he’s far away, it’s as if he’s peering inside my soul. Like he’s able to see and touch every feeling and thought I’ve ever had. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating. 
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My nails dig into the bark as I hold my breath. Same as my mother, I count my breaths, whispering them into the cool breeze. The boy just stands there with his pen poised over his notebook, his eyes narrowed as he studies me. 
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Then without looking down at his paper, his pen resumes gliding across the paper. Once he’s finished, the corner of his mouth turns up in a small smile. With the pen still pinched between his fingers, he lifts his hand and gives me a gentle wave. 
A sharp burst of air slams into my lungs before I find myself returning his gesture. I lift my shaking hand, knowing I can hear my heart beating loud and clear, reminding me to keep breathing.
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This is the first time. The first time he’s acknowledged me. The first time we’re looking at each other. 
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I give him a smile before my attention is stolen, once again, by the sound of the back door sliding open. 
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Quietly, I move to the other side of the tree and peek over the side to find my mother still in the same position, kneeling against the soft ground. Her knees and hands are covered in wet dirt, but she doesn’t care. 
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“Florence,” my father says, slowly walking up behind her. He stops just short of meeting her, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his tweed slacks. “What are you doing out here?”
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“I want a divorce, Michael,” she mutters in response. The same words she screamed to him only moments ago. 
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“We both know you don’t mean that. You should come inside. You’re only embarrassing yourself here.” Three lines crease my father’s forehead as he frowns, knowing my mother won’t follow through on the same threat she’s told him for years.
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“I do mean it.” Her voice trembles. She’s staring off in the distance with a resigned expression. A tear slips from her eye, sliding slowly down her cheek.
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“No, you don’t.” He doesn’t once move to comfort her as he towers over her, looking over her shoulder with annoyance, as if he’s tired of convincing my mother to stay with him when she has every reason not to. “We both know you won’t divorce me. You won’t leave Charleigh here, and I won’t let you take her from me. I’ll fight you to keep her.”
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My stomach roils at the thought of either scenario playing out. A life with only my mother. A life with only my father. Neither bring me happiness. Neither bring me closer to my dream of living in New York City surrounded by flowers.
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“You… you don’t want her,” she sputters out on an exhausted breath. “You’ve never wanted her.”
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Her confession is a gut punch, making me wish I wasn’t a fly on the wall. 
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“How dare you?” he seethes. 
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My mother’s head finally swivels, looking up and over her shoulder to pierce my father with her daggered eyes. 
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“No, Michael,” she bites back. “How dare you? How dare you do this to us time and time again?”
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This time, my father bends at his knees, resting his arms over them, bringing his eyes in line with my mother’s. He traces her cheek with the back of his hand before tucking her tangled hair behind her ear. She recoils at his touch, but he pulls her back before she can look too far.
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“It was one time, and she meant nothing,” he says quietly. “I told you that none of them have ever mattered to me. Not as much as you.”
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“Then, why do you keep doing this to me?”
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“Florence.” Her name is all that falls from his mouth, sending her a silent message.
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My mother squeezes her eyes shut, blowing out a resolving breath. 
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He cocks his head to the side in satisfaction. “That’s right, my love.” 
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Four words can change everything.
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My mother’s eyes open, and my father stands. He narrows his eyes and sniffs before shoving his hands back into his pockets.
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“Now, dig your wedding ring out from the ground, and clean yourself up,” he orders before spinning around on his heel and making his way back into the house. “We’re hosting the board members tonight, and you need to look absolutely perfect.”
He slams the door shut behind him, and my mother slowly turns her head back around, looking down at the mound of dirt covering her ring. Her tears fall there as she quickly digs through the dirt again, finding the large diamond resting on a thin, gold band. She slips it back onto her finger and pulls herself to a stand. Streaks of dirt coat her cheeks as she swipes her tears away. Then, as if she hasn’t threatened my father with divorce for finding out about his hundredth affair, she walks back into the house with a fake saccharine smile. 
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I feel her absence as soon as the door slides shut, and it isn’t until I look down at the cold ground that I realize I’m shedding my own tears. 
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Four words can change everything. But for my parents, they never do. 
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Their love isn’t love at all.
And I’m convinced I’ll never find true love of my own. At least not here. Not when I’m forced to be an audience to the theater show they put on over and over again while trapped in a dysfunctional, loveless marriage for reasons I don’t understand.
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I wipe my tears and try to quickly mend my fractured heart when I remember the boy standing in the middle of the street. I look up, hoping to find his golden eyes still staring at me. 
My shoulders deflate in disappointment. He’s gone, though hope remains tethered to my heart at the thought of seeing him again, especially after today. 
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For now, my life remains the same. I pluck a wild daisy growing near the roots of my favorite tree, and rub the soft petals between my fingers. At least I have nature to keep me grounded, reminding me four words never change anything.
Ever.
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