Again
The car ride was silent.
Once we pulled into the driveway, my little sister ran inside.
I watched her, as my mother once watched me.
Knowing that eventually her feet would slow too.
My mother and I followed, slowly.
We watched as she ran through the hallway, swinging my parents’ bedroom door open, and waited for the verdict as she scanned the closet.
When she emerged, she was silent. My mother started dinner. Dinner for three tonight, my sister’s face said, and she cried.
My mother sobbed over her dinner. And excused herself early to bed.
I showered my sister and made sure she did her homework.
I let her sleep in my room. My mother’s door was locked.
She would emerge in the morning, and we wouldn’t talk about the empty half of the closet or how she made an extra serving for dinner just in case.
And eventually he would come back, duffle in hand.
He would sleep again in my room.
He would make sure my sister showered and help her with her homework.
He would move his things back into the empty half of the closet.
And eat the extra serving at dinner.
Then there would be another silent car ride.
And my sister would run to the closet again.
An empty closet, an uneaten plate.
And my mom’s door would be locked.
And we wouldn’t talk about it.
